Rey placed the blue teapot on the stove like it was a sacred object.
It had been three days since the bazaar—the alley that vanished behind him like a breath in cold air—and still, the memory of it felt too sharp to be imagined. He hadn't told anyone. He barely left the apartment. The world beyond his window went on, noisy and indifferent, but inside, things had grown still. Still, but not empty.
Every night now, he made tea from the new pot.
He didn't know why he did it. Habit, maybe. Or hope, thin and foolish. It wasn't that the tea tasted special—it didn't. It was just black tea, maybe slightly floral. But there was a weight to the ritual that felt… grounding. Like standing barefoot on solid earth after years of floating.
Mornings came slowly, and his routines were quiet ones.
He read, though sometimes he had to reread the same paragraph three times before it stuck. He watered the three plants in his apartment that hadn't given up on him yet. He answered one email a day, no more. Some from work, asking when he'd be ready to return. Others from friends who meant well but didn't know what to say to someone whose body was quietly betraying him.
He didn't blame them. He barely knew what to say to himself.
But that night—after he poured the tea, sat in silence, and let it warm his chest—he dreamed.
It started subtly. A flicker behind closed eyes, a softness. Then he was standing barefoot in an orchard of silver trees. Their leaves shimmered like wind chimes, though no wind stirred them. He didn't know how he knew it was a dream—only that it was, and that he hadn't had one in what felt like forever.
In the dream, someone stood beneath the trees, pouring tea from a kettle that looked just like his. Their face was turned away. He couldn't move closer. Couldn't speak. But the sound of pouring filled the orchard like rain on stone.
Then, a voice. Not loud, not even spoken aloud. Just felt, like thunder in the ribs:
"You asked. You were heard."
Rey woke with a start.
The room was still dark, the tea mug still half-full on the table. But he felt… different. Lighter. As if some small thread that had been tangled for months had finally begun to loosen.
He sat there for a long time, trying to shake the feeling that the dream had meant something. That it wasn't random.
That he hadn't imagined it.
Maybe it was nothing. Just a stray firing of neurons in a tired brain.
But that morning, he watered the plants before they drooped. He answered two emails. He even opened the blinds.
The teapot sat quietly on the counter, gleaming faintly in the morning light.