Tea for the soul

The train hummed beneath Edith, a steady rhythm that matched the measured rhythm of her thoughts. She sat alone, the latest newspaper in her hands, She could feel the crisp of the paper on her thumbs as she glanced down at the headline:

“A Dead Man and the Wrong Cup of Tea.”

A peculiar thing, really.

“John, 75 years old was found lifeless at his home last night, his corpse sitting limply, half under his dining table, his cup half full. Authorities have yet to determine the cause of death. No signs of forced entry, no evidence of struggle. Neighbors recall little of note—he lived alone, rarely had visitors. Investigations are ongoing.”

Edith traced the words with her finger. A lonely man, a quiet death. Tragic, in its way. She had always found tragedy to be the purest form of storytelling—life unraveling at its inevitable seam.

The train lurched as it approached her stop. Edith folded the paper and tucked it under her arm before stepping out onto the platform. The sound of heels clicking on platform followed her trail.

As she walked into her drama class, she didn’t have to think twice before deciding today's subject: Tragedy.

The classroom was filled with voices chattering. The students sat in a loose semicircle, their copies of Macbeth open on their laps, pages soft from use.

Edith stood in front of them, greeted everyone with a nice ‘good morning’ and then she approached the subject.

“Macbeth murders the king, but tell me—was it truly fate? Or was it a choice?” She asked quizzically, her eyebrow arched testingly.

The students were silent in thought before a boy spoke. “The witches told him he’d be king. Maybe he had no choice?” He tried.

Edith gave the faintest tilt of her head. “Did the prophecy place the knife in his hand?” She let the question sink into their minds before she continued, “Fate does not absolve a man of his actions. He chose to kill. And what do we know about choices?”

A girl in the back hesitated. “They… have consequences.”

Edith nodded. “Exactly. Every action has its own impact. Macbeth could not escape his own hand. His guilt consumed him. And what do we learn from his story?”

The room was quiet. Then, carefully:

“Those sins demand punishment.”

A small, satisfied smile touched her lips. “Very good.”

The lesson was over.

At home, the quiet welcomed her, enveloping her with calm.

She removed her coat, draped it neatly over the chair, and walked to the kitchen. The routine was her personal daily ritual, a ritual that came naturally, she knew exactly what to do without any endeavor, no doubting movements.

She took two cups to the tea table on the balcony. Early twilight skies painted the view, the air felt blue and cool, just the right temperature for a warm drink. She placed the two cups precisely where they always sat hotly, one in front of her chair, one for the chair across from her (her husband’s chair), both on the elegant wooden table.

She inhaled the air around her with closed eyes, appreciating the soft chamomile mist while it lasted, waiting patiently for her husband to get home.

She opened her eyes and looked at the currently empty chair at the other side of the table. It made her recall the other man she served tea to. As she waited, she tried reliving the old man’s final moment, a precious memory that was important to Edith.

She tried imagining that he was right in front of her, on the very chair her husband will soon sit on as well.

The old man’s head was tilted slightly forward, his right hand clutched desperately at the chair, but eventually fell to his lap, if Edith’s memory was correct. The teacup before him was half-drunk, its pale stain marking the inside rim. His skin’s pinkish hue was slowly replaced with a cool undertone, as if his blood froze forever.

The newspaper article had described it well enough. He had been careful at first, lifting the cup, taking slow sips. Then the subtle change—the pause, the faint tightening of his throat as something acrid settled at the back of his tongue. The hesitation. The moment of realization, too late to do anything about it.

She remembered watching. His body had slumped gently, as if sleep had simply overtaken him mid-thought. Her favorite part about this poison was how quickly and painlessly it worked; the victims could’ve barely struggled before they disappeared from this world.

A fitting end for a man who had never understood consequence.

She adjusted the cup, aligning it neatly with the saucer.

But tonight, it was not about him.

She turned back to her husband’s chair.

The tea steamed faintly, untouched.

She sat across from it, watching the wisp of steam slowly rise and fade into the dim light.

A part of her had once believed he could change. That his wrongdoings—so carefully buried beneath the weight of time and routine—could be softened by remorse. But remorse never came. Only expectation. Only the certainty that she would endure it, because she always had.

She lifted her own cup, taking a measured sip. The taste was familiar, bitter in a way that spread through the body before the mind had time to resist.

Her gaze remained on the empty chair.

When he came home, as he always did, she would hand him his cup. He would drink, as he always did. And when his body grew weak, when he fought weakly for his last breaths, when he ceased to move, when his hands trembled against the arm of the chair—she would watch.

She sat with herself, it was the quiet she had yearned for, so long.

Finally, the house was eternally quiet. nothing could disturb her peace now and henceforth. She looked at her dead partner as she took the last sip of her now tepid tea, “sins come with punishments”, she muttered to herself, letting her words hang in the empty house.