What Grows Beneath

‘I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea’ - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Summer 1992, 7^th cup

The tea still works, even though it shifts and alters more than it should. My skin is tighter, I feel it around my chin and my collarbones, but it takes curious forms here and there, either too smooth or too sharp. The first time it happened, I barely noticed – I was blinded by relief, youth. I don’t recognize my own reflection anymore. Now my patience wears thin where it once stretched long, my thoughts move too quickly and my moods shift without warning. The hours of morning I used to cherish agitate me. It’s like I’m trapped in time, not freed from it. Next time I’ll use more leaves, just to make sure.

The walls were covered with vines that followed the delicate pattern of bricks, seeping through gaps in the mortar and peeking inside like intruders. The house stood like a forgotten relic, with its green tapestry of tendrils creeping along the windowsills, curling around the hinges and swaying gently in the breeze. Some vines had grown so thick they formed a canopy over the sagging porch, casting shifting shadows on the creaking wooden floors. On the side, the chimney peeked out from the greenery, barely visible beneath the stubborn embrace of ivy. It was a house where nature had reclaimed its place, where the edges of time were blurred and cloudy.

At the start of spring the lilies flowered, and through the door left ajar you could see a bouquet placed carefully on the table. If you turned right, through the air that carried the earthy scents of the vines, you would find yourself in the parlor, where furniture sat like forgotten ghosts of another era; an armchair draped with quilt, a table so old its scratches looked like wrinkles, books with cracked spines and yellowed pages scattered across a shelf leaning slightly to one side. Moss clung to the edges of the fireplace.

From here you’d go through one of the two doors and end up in either the bedroom or the kitchen. The bed, centered in the middle of the room, had chipped paint coming off its iron frame. The blend of abandonment and charm that was the kitchen had mismatched jars of spices and dried herbs lined on shelves, and next to the sink, a cast-iron kettle that rested on a stove, pulsing with a strange vitality. Its lid always seemed to breathe with soft, metallic sighs, an ancient creature that seemed to know every secret whispered within the house.

This altered slice of forest belonged entirely to Dorothy, an old lady whose only company was the house itself. Dorothy had lived there for as long as anyone could remember, a quiet but constant presence on the edge of the world. Her wiry frame, draped in shawls, moved slowly through the vine-covered walls, her hands always stained with the green of crushed herbs or brewed teas. Depending on who told the story, she might’ve been a herbalist, a healer or even a witch, but for those who didn’t like to indulge in the grasps of fiction, she was just a lonely old woman.

The solace she found in nature helped her cope with the sadness and grief brought by age; her thoughts often spiraled into the past, replaying moments from her youth that were long gone. The forest became her refuge, a place where her grief felt less sharp, where she could lose herself in the rustling of leaves overhead. It made her feel small in the most comforting sense – like a child again, cradled by something much larger than herself. Each time she was surrounded by the vibrant green and the hum of insects, she felt life and youth pumping through her veins; it made something inside her ache, deep and primal. It was as if she wanted to consume the forest whole, swallow its wildness and vitality and fill the hollow place within her that grief had carved. In this warm embrace, she could almost forget all the heaviness she carried. Almost.

April 23^rd 1952, 1^st cup

I don’t know what to expect. Perhaps a little more energy, an ease in my joints. I can see the plant standing outside my window, unfazed, as if didn’t just surrender something so life-changing to me. I don’t expect miracles because that would be foolish. If I wake up tomorrow and feel the way I did ten years ago, even five…

Dorothy was at that age when even the slightest noise troubled her sleep, so when she heard the soft, almost rhythmic rustling, she got up immediately. It wasn’t the sharp sound of wind, nor the familiar clattering of branches or leaves carried on the breeze. She stretched, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and gazed out through a gap in the curtains. There, growing just outside the window, was a plant nestled against the weathered stone wall, claiming the place as if it had always belonged.

Except it didn’t, the old woman thought. Its presence felt almost magical, with white blossoms that stood out like tiny stars, delicate and almost too perfect. Dorothy got her shawl and went outside to get a better look. The closer she stepped, the quicker her heart beat.

She knelt down, her fingers brushing the leaves lightly. The plant had a quiet elegance and an earthy scent so familiar, she almost didn’t notice the subtle, sweet fragrance that lingered in the breeze. The plant seemed to hum with life beneath her touch; it called to her. Was it a gift, an omen?

As Dorothy pulled her hand away from the plant, she felt an odd, sudden shift; something within her had been gently untangled. She looked down at her palm and, instead of the familiar creases that had accumulated over the years, she saw skin so smooth, almost unmarked, as if just that part of her body had slipped away in time. The wrinkles, the evidence of age that had clung to her like a malady for so long, had vanished, replaced by the soft texture that she hadn’t known in decades.

In the stillness of night, Dorothy couldn’t help but wonder – had the plant done more than just grow? Had it reached into her and drawn something out, something almost rotten – and if yes, could it do it again? A strange surge of impulse swept over her. She reached toward one of its thick, twisting branches, curled her fingers around it and, with a sudden determination and strength, snapped it off. The leaves rustled in protest, but the plant itself made no other sound – no objection, no struggle.

Start off by boiling the water (4 cups over medium-high heat), which you then pour over about 1 tablespoon of leaves and steep to the desired strength before straining. The quantity of leaves influences the end result (taste, smell, years turned back), so beware. Add sugar, if needed, and stir until completely dissolved. Pour into a cup and drink.

She set the teapot on the table and rested her hands on the worn surface. The silence in the room seemed to stretch, as though the whole house was holding its breath. When she poured the hot liquid into her cup, the smell was sweet and inviting.

Before lifting the cup to her lips, she let her gaze drift back to the smooth skin of her palm – it seemed impossible, and for a second she thought it might all be a dream, a mirage created by her sleeping self. But there it was again, the freshness of youth staring back at her, all too real.

As she took her first, slow sip, the light of dawn crept through the curtains casting a pale, golden glow across the room. A ray of sunlight slipped past the table, past the jars with their faded labels covered in a layer of dust, and kissed the edge of the cup. After downing its contents, Dorothy couldn’t help but smile.

Years passed, the world shifted and reshaped itself. Time had forgiven nobody, it shed its old skin and kept emerging in a new form, always moving forward. Seasons marked their passing in the slow dance between life, death and rebirth. The forest stirred from its slumber each spring, deepened its song in summer, caught its breath in autumn and went to sleep at last, in winter.

Outside Dorothy’s house, the plant stood tall, its leaves shimmering in the sunlight, vibrant and green. It didn’t wither in the cold or droop in the heat, and while the trees around it shed their leaves, the plant turned a deeper shade of green, as if to mock the cycle of decay that governed everything else. Something so human, so terrestrial – this idea of age – was never a threat to its wellbeing.

Dorothy had witnessed these changes through both joy and sorrow. She was always there, a still point in a spinning universe. Each time she plucked a fresh leaf, she felt a rush of vitality fill her, the years peeling away from her skin. Her reflection showed a face far younger than she had any right to possess. One cup, two cups, three, twenty, a hundred.

It was easy to lose track of time. The cycle of day and night became meaningless, days and hours and minutes were nothing compared to the eternity locked behind her eyes. Instead, Dorothy would measure the passing of time by watching the plant diminish before her eyes, wondering how long it had left before turning into withered twigs. Would it one day simply stop growing altogether? Would she steal its essence until they both shrank, one no longer thriving at the others’ expense?

132^nd cup

I used to think highly of the plant, how time doesn’t affect its leaves or flowers, but I’m not so sure anymore. The tea makes my stomach turn. I drink it anyway (what’s the alternative?), but every sip feels like a chore. I miss the sweet taste it once had. I don’t even want to think about the possibility of it dying. Maybe it already is and I just don’t let myself see.

The earth beneath Dorothy’s feet was dry and cracked, reflecting nothing but decay; around her, the world was lifeless. Even the birds, creatures that had once filled the mornings with their song, had long since vanished. Only silence remained.

At the center of this desolation stood the plant – at least what was left of it. Its branches were brittle and twisted, no longer covered by the lush leaves that had once crowned it in green splendor. Dorothy knelt before it one last time, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch the withered frame. She could feel it, the final breath of life, and she knew, in the ache of her bones, in the faint lines that had begun to reappear on her hands yet again, that this would be all over at last. Time, it seemed, had finally caught up to her.

And yet, she couldn’t resist taking this one more gift. Carefully, she plucked the final few leaves from the plant’s skeletal frame, thin and fragile like paper soaked in water. In the kitchen, she lit the fire and set the battered kettle on the stove. The water boiled slowly, keeping the moment alive for just a while longer, this last ritual that she was unwilling to let go of. She dropped the leaves into the cup , watching as they unfurled, filling the air with the earthy scent tinged with a faint bitterness she couldn’t recall. It smelled of death.

She carried the cup back to the garden, standing among the ruins of her once-vibrant wood, the plant motionless behind her. She hesitated for a moment, before raising the cup to her lips and drinking slowly. The warmth spread through her body, but the feeling was different this time – heavier, less vibrant. Her hands did not change, the lines on her face remained. The tea had nothing left to give.

Behind her, the plant made a soft, cracking sound, and when she turned, she saw it collapse in on itself. Its branches curled inward, its roots shrank, pulling away from the earth until there was nothing left but a blackened patch of soil. It was gone, completely gone...

As Dorothy stood in the silent, dead garden, she felt a strange sensation stir within her chest, faint at first and then growing stronger, deeper, spreading through her body like the vines on the house. When she clutched her arms, panic rising in her throat, she felt her skin softening, thinning, veins emerging beneath the surface like the ridges of a leaf. Her legs trembled and she fell to her knees, the cracked earth beneath pressing into her bones; she couldn’t rise back up no matter how hard she tried. She was shrinking, folding into herself, rooting into the soil as if she was being claimed by it. Swallowed.

Her hair began to tangle and grow wild, sprouting into long, twisting vines that cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. She wanted to scream, but her words cut off, muffled by the sound of creaking wood emerging from her throat. It was as though the forest was taking back the very life she had drained from the plant over centuries. She had stolen, and now she would give – that was her last thought before her human form erased itself completely.

Dorothy stands, now, elegant and tall, her branches twisted upward toward the pale sky. She gave up on trying to regain her human beauty, but she mourns it still, while her leaves are swaying gently in the wind. From a distance, she appears flawless – a vibrant plant in contrast to the barren garden. As you get closer though, you start to notice the rot and ruin on the tips of her leaves, how they curl inwards as if, in their attempt to grow, they lost their strength halfway. They whisper of a decay she cannot escape, no matter how deeply her roots have sunk into the soil.