There is a store open past midnight.

You know the one; you are driving and somehow steered wrong and turned where you didn’t mean to, or perhaps your cab stopped inches past where it should have, and then a cross-street you wouldn’t usually notice is there, and then you see it, the store with tall windows, lighted from the inside, amber tones, like honey, pouring through the street, open and waiting for you.

It doesn’t always appear on the same street or even in the same city. Most of the time, you will not feel the pull to visit it and will move on, and then it’ll be gone, and somehow you won’t quite remember it, mid-forgotten as dreams are.

But not tonight.

Tonight you stop the car, and you cross the street, not looking to get home. Tonight you close the gap that connects you to it, and you watch its window, full of teacups of different sizes, colors, and places. Tall ones and round ones, and the one that reminds you of rainy days spent with grandma, cookies, and a fireplace, back when you were younger, much younger.

But the teacup is there, and you know it’s that one, with the same certainty you know that’s really not possible, but the cup doesn’t seem to mind and remains there, expecting you. The same ochre-colored ceramic teacup that she used to pour boiling water in and steam would raise strong, quite strong, with undertones of mint and roses and lavender and oils. You remember the smells, and you remember just how safe and warm you used to feel. You haven’t felt that way since then.

There is no price tag, but you want it, and so you open the door and step into the store looking for it.

A bell rings above, subtle and janky, sufficient to capture the attention of the woman sitting near a desk by the far end of the store.

She nods at you and gestures in a way that says, “Welcome, welcome, but spare me some minutes, please,” and then goes back to work, tracing her finger across a tall book filled with too many pages.

And so you wait, and your eyes move through the store. You can still see the street you just came in and the car waiting outside, but it could also have been any other street and any other car, but the store could only be the store.

Two wooden counters holding samples of herbs and spices and other oddities you can’t really name sit next to walls filled with cabinets of many sizes, all of them small, covered by small plastic doors and old paper.

The walls seem to go up about three stories tall, but you really can’t remember if the store was as tall the moment before, but you assume it must have; things don’t just grow depending on what they need to be, or at least you don’t think they do.

And below, there’s the floor, covered by metal trap doors where fumes escape and bathe the room in a mixture of clove and syrup and what appears to be mint with some drops of what you can only describe as purple, if colors were to have a taste, and you know they don’t.

“That’s for steaming, try not to step on top of them, please, the floor is not as sturdy as it was once before, none of us are, really, and we should have fixed that by now, but you know how that is, dear,” the woman tells you, her attention not entirely with you yet, her eyes fixated on pages filled with scribbles made of different penmanships and colors.

After a moment that feels like it had lasted what it should, she finally nods, jots down something new at the end of the page, and, not without effort, closes the book, a cloud of dust launching into the air, adding to the mixture of essences and flavors that were already there.

“Thank you so much for waiting, darling. I do apologize I wasn’t quite ready for you yet. I am surprised to see you here, you know? You always look, but you never seem to get in. I should have been prepared, anyway, yes, but I hope I can make up for that with our wholesome service and good prices.”

The woman looks older than you, but not by much. Blonde streaks decorate long auburn braids, and she wears a set of two eyewear pieces as collars on her neck, one larger, the other smaller, and if you were to describe her whole attire, comfortable would be the word you’d pick over fashionable or even century-appropriated.

“What is this place?” you ask.

“A store,” she says. “What would you expect it to be?”

“I am not sure. It seems like it would be something different, but it also seems like it’d be a store.”

“She does that, and she is. A store, and sometimes something different, but mostly she is what she is, and there’s not much you or I can do about it, is there?”

You are not sure about that or whether she was actually asking you something, but you still nod in agreement even when you’re not also sure if you do or you don’t.

“Well, let’s see, I assume you have one model in mind, don’t you? Red cups from those nights back in college, perhaps? No, not quite. There’s the yellow bear-shaped cup you dropped on your first date, but that’s not also it, isn’t it? Of course, your grandma’s teacup, I take it?”

“It is, right? Nana’s cup. Not one that looks like it, or one of the same set.”

The woman walks next to you and checks the window’s shelves until her eyes land on the cup and nods while pensive.

“Yes, it certainly is. Down to the chipped side and those scratches you used to make with those old matches. It’s a beautiful piece and has been here for so long.”

“How is that possible? How could it be here?”

“Oh, you know. Things are here until they are not. Sometimes they move around and find their way onto new homes; other times, they return, missing the quiet in here. You know how it is.”

And you know. Right then, you know what she says is possible and true, for the cup that she has put on your hands carries the same weight, the same impossible size, and heaviness, as it did when you held it so many years ago, even when it shouldn’t and even when you should be stronger now, and you find reassurance in the fact that it feels right and like home.

“How much? I mean, how much is it?”

“Well, prices are such an ugly business. There’s still time for that; you can’t just buy a teacup anymore, can you? Sure, you can get some fancy ones at the drugstore and your malls, but then again, why would you? Mass-produced and machine-made, that’s not really a teacup you get, but a copy of one, a resemblance of a shadow, but not the real thing, no. No wonder they don’t last!”

“Is it free, then?”

“Nothing is ever free, sweetie, you should know that already, with your smartphone or those expensive notebooks you buy—three, really? Oh, I know, I know, one for writing, the rest for notes, you don’t have to explain, I have a bunch behind the store, all as unwritten as yours. No, first we need to prepare the entire order?”

“Order?”

“Well, you are not getting a teacup and not ordering some tea, right? That’s cross-selling for you.”

The woman carries herself through the store in that lightsome way you’ve always admired, free and carefree, her eyes search for something until a smile draws on her face.

“Ah, yes. I knew we had a fresh batch. Well, come on, come on, I won’t bite. Very well, first, you will need your leaves—that is, your Camellia sinensis.”

“Does every tea come from the same leaf?”

“Why, yes, the same way all wine comes from the same grape. What you do with them is what matters. Steam them fast and leave them to dry to make some green tea or let it oxidize completely after bruising them and get some black ones. And that’s only two ways to make them.”

“I—I guess I prefer black tea.”

“Very well then, I’ll step here and here—you need to be careful, mind you, these are some expensive teas, thank you very much—and, yes, here we go, I think this is about ready for some lovely and enlightening black tea,”

“Yes, perfect. Well, I’ll take my leave then; how much is it?”

“But we’re just getting started, sweetie. We can’t drop the race when we’re just beginning, can we? Is that why you are here so late?”

“No, I just… it’s personal.”

The woman’s eyes linger on yours for one more second than you feel comfortable with, but her smile doesn’t falter. She raises her eyebrows, and you know you shouldn’t tell strangers, shouldn’t really be talking nor being out so late, but you hear the rain pouring outside, and deep down, you know you’d rather be somewhere warm, and the store is, above everything, warm.

“I think we can try something before moving on with the rest of your order,” she says. She takes your cup, that is, granny’s cup, and fills it with hot water and some milk, and then she drops ingredient after ingredient before returning it to you, and inside you see a shiny almond liquid that you can’t really decide if it’s darker or lighter than what you were expecting, covered with golden and yellow speckles that glisten and glimmer as the light shines on them.

“It will do you good, it always does,”

“What is it?” you ask, even when you know the answer won’t matter.

“Drink and find out,”

And so you do, and your lips open just enough, and you drink it, the velvety liquid rushing through your mouth, and your throat, as hot as it should be, and no more, and you feel it warming your body, a rich aroma of nuts climbing through your nose, and then you’re not there anymore.

You’re back with Nana, and her rosy cheeks, the smell of charred peach pie, and a breeze making the curtains dance.

And you’re happy, but you know you shouldn’t, not after what happened, and so you push the feelings in more, even if it hurts because you know the alternative would hurt even more, and you’re back in the store again, if perhaps warmer and calmer.

“Nice, isn’t it? A good tea will take you places.”

“I remembered being young.”

“Oh, sweet creature, thinking you are not still young when you barely touch your third decade. Think of me, one time, will you? Not even tea can deal with lower-back pains. But tell me, was it a good memory? Tea will take you back or carry you forward, but it won’t guide you. That’s for me to do.”

“I saw my Nana.”

“Of course you did. It’s always Nanas and Mothers and Fathers and Children. Few Brothers, but Teachers appear here and there. That’s life, I suppose.“

“What was it? What is this store?”

“My dear, questions, and questions. Your lot always has a hard time accepting what they are given, don’t you? But perhaps that’s what makes you grow and evolve—and maybe what makes you seek something when you already have a treasure at home.

“This is a tea store, and we sell tea. But you know that already, a smart girl like you. You don’t ask for what this is, but how it works. You want to understand. Sadly, that’s above my pay grade. I just work here, sweetie. But what I can tell you is that we only show you what you wanted to see, even if you weren’t aware of that before.”

And it is then when you want to trust her. You want to tell her about your fears of Lea and about the kid.

And yet… well, you wouldn’t be here if it was that easy. You would be with her. Talking as you did before. Nodding off with the sound of a TV that’s never off, with unwashed dishes on the floor and leftover sushi.

But you—that is, the plural you—haven’t really been that way for a while. Not since she brought the kid up.

“Drink more, sweetie, one sip after another one, my mom used to say. There’s milk with a dash of linden and orange zest. It’s good, I made it.”

“I—I don’t want to remember.”

“Ah, you’re one of those. That’s fine. You know, I was hoping for one of the heart-broken ones tonight; they always have a pleasant story and a good cry.”

The woman turns and walks back to her desk, opening the book once again and writes something while looking at you, reading what’s underneath, but also what could be.

“Let’s see, darling. Thirty-two, white, in software—you really need to diversify there, you know?—unmarried, oh, but close, so close. Parents alive, a happy relationship and—no, that’s it, isn’t it? Relationships.”

A smile appears on her face, and her cheeks turn red, filling the place freckles had been before.

“That’s even better! Why didn’t you say so? Love, oh, isn’t it so beautiful? The nights you had with her, that view, what a beautiful view, the moon pouring its light over the sea. Oh, my love, you are so lucky to have found each other. And she’s so organized, bless you, with how you treated your apartment before. This is perfect.”

“It doesn’t feel perfect.”

“Of course, of course. It’s just that sometimes these nights can get hard, with people and their work problems, their mergers and acquisitions, valuations, and IPOs. It doesn’t take much for me to want to yell, ‘check your privilege!’.

“But that’s not you, sweetie, no. Well, let’s get on moving, shall we?”

Before you can react, she has already scratched something off the book and is moving through one curtain next to the desk, and only her voice coming from the other side makes you realize she is calling and you are already late.

Inside, you find yourself in a room with a massive spiral staircase right in the middle, surrounded by boxes on top of other boxes, all big and bulky, labeled by a mismatched collection of papers and post-its and what appears to be a store receipt.

“Took your time, didn’t you? It’s fine, you’re the only customer tonight, and you have my full attention. Let’s see, your first drink took you Before. That’s good; the matters of the heart usually start there. But there was something else, wasn’t it? You pushed that memory down.”

“I don’t want to speak about that.”

“Nor should you, if you don’t want to. That’s fine. My, sometimes I’m the one doing the talk for both of us! But if you’ve gone Before, we need to add something first, something to get us closer but not get hurt. Ambrose, perhaps? Or maybe those mint leaves from when you were little? No? That’s fine, we’ll get there.”

The woman moves through the room, her fingers touching all the papers, reciting combinations of flowers and fruits until she stops.

“Oh, Dianne, this is the one. Peaches from that tart she used to make, the one you have spent years trying to taste again. Store-bought never does it, there’s always something missing. A flavor not quite there. But this will help us get close, but only so much. Come on, come on, cups up!”

She scoops some dried peach slices from a wooden box tarnished by time and decorated with stamps, and in a single smooth motion, crushes and sprinkles them over your teacup, the brownish bits swirling and moving until they disappear, leaving the tea smooth and creamier than it was before.

Without really thinking, you’re already drinking some, and once again, you can feel it rushing through your throat, cleansing and warm, with a tingle of bitterness that wasn’t before.

You look at the woman, but she’s no longer there. Instead, you see Nana peacefully sleeping, a bedpost holding some tubes, the pungent odor of alcohol hitting your nose while a machine beeps.

This was not supposed to be a memory, for you were never here.

The woman from the store rests her hand on your shoulder.

“You wanted to be there, but it was too much for you. You were just a child.”

“She didn’t need to be alone. I was weak.”

“My love, we are all weak sometimes. Life will throw wrenches on our plans and will unfair challenges on our way. Weakness is not trying to protect your heart.”

“But she was alone. I could have done more. I could have held her hand.”

“And you did, many times. You held her hand when you rushed to meet her every day after classes. You held her hand when you told her about that someone you fancied from school. You held her hand when she didn’t ask for it and more when she did.

“Her life was filled with love because you were there with her when it mattered. She knew this would bring memories of your parents and she didn’t want you to see her like that. She never judged you. Not then, not now. Your love was stronger than that.”

“Did she suffer? In the end?”

“She did not. She was sleepy and tired until she was not. But she lived a happy life because you were there to make her happy. And that’s the gift she cherished the most. You did her good.”

You feel tears running through your face, and more follow once you are back in the store, the woman’s hand still on your shoulder.

“Crying is good, Dianne. Crying is healing. I think peaches were the right choice if I do say myself. Let’s continue, shall we? Enough from Before, I always say, the past is there, comforting us or trapping us, but there it will remain. Let’s think about Now.”

“Now?”

“Of course, now. Now doesn’t need to be *now*, mind you. Now is just what’s keeping you from going home to her. “

“I already know about that.”

“Perhaps, but the tea won’t really work until it’s complete. Let’s see, we need to think about, yes, aromas. I think I may have something suitable for that. No, not here, that’s already expired, let’s keep that secret, ok, darling? Lemons and petals, close, but no. There’s late-night pizza, but that’s when things were ok, that’s not Now.

“Ah, yes. Here it is, we carry many of this. Last week’s coffee! I can smell those Peruvian beans! But there’s also a hint of vanilla and some wine; you really need to get that washing machine going, eh?”

The woman unscrews a small plastic vial, the scent remaining in the air even when the woman has already poured it on your cup, and even when it’s gone from the surface, swirling and twirling until the whole thing has turned darker and cold.

“Try it, love,”

The tea keeps whirling, bits of everything that was there before flashing in and out, colors blending until only a serene mixture remains, and it’s already flowing through you, and your eyes close, for you know what’s coming, and so it begins.

The scene is the same as you remember, you standing there, a cup in your hand, tears drying on your face, and she’s there as well, Lea is. A pink t-shirt with oversized black pajama pants, her face still unsure about why what she said has upset you as much.

“We don’t have to have it, you know? I just thought, well, that you wanted to.”

You nod, because you agree and because you don’t want to upset her, and you don’t know why you are even upset, when the idea of a child had made sense before, in the past, when it that, just a thought, but now it could be more.

Now is knowing there could be someone else depending on you, on your love and on you being there, and you are not sure you can be that person, not since Nana died, not since you weren’t there.

And so you’ll smile and say that everything is fine when your eyes will be yelling differently, and even when she accepts it, even when she knows that’s a lie, you’ll want to believe everything is alright because the alternative, well, the alternative is to think that things are not alright.

That she may leave.

And then you’re back, the woman staring intensely at you.

“We all may fail, Dianne, and we all may break promises and hurt others. And they may leave. But that is what living is all about—moving forward when it’s hard, enjoying the moments when you are happy, when it’s both of you together, watching TV, your blanket covering only one because the other gets too hot during the night.

“And I think you know this already.”

And you do. You take the last sip, but this time there’s nothing else. This time there is only Now.

The woman smiles.

“I think you deserve the chance to be happy, and that’s what this store is about. Good flavors. Pleasant aromas. New beginnings.”

And you know. You know you deserve to be loved, and you want to love others. You know the feelings you have held for so long were not protecting you but instead keeping you away from people. From her. And the thought that, as fearful as it may be, perhaps having a family wouldn’t be so bad if you could do it with her.

“I think it’s time for you to head home, sweetie.”

“Yes, I think so. I feel tired.”

“That’s the tea, telling your body it’s time to rest. It is, after all, quite late at night, and your cab is waiting and your love as well.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, love, you have paid already. Just take care of the cup and promise you’ll fill it with good tea. The best tea.”

And then she goes, walking past you back to the entrance, and as you follow, you see her writing on the book something you can’t read.

The entrance room welcomes you once again, and so the rain, and the aromas and the lights, every step you take makes you feel lighter and lighter as if you had left something behind, even if you’re not sure what.

The bell rings once as you leave and another after you close the door, and then the cab driver says hello and hopes they had a restroom available, with it being so late at night, and you’re not sure what he’s talking about.

You just look back and see the street, and everything is closed, all lights are gone, as it always is during this time of the night, and then your cell phone rings, and it’s her, and you can’t wait to hear one of her “What-the-hell-were-you-thinking-come-home-I-am-worried-sick” calls.

This time, though, you just smile and hear her voice. Perhaps there’ll be something cold in the fridge you can reheat.

The night feels young even when it’s not, and maybe you both would like to spend it awake, perhaps not sleeping, not much, as if training for what may come.