Tea with marion

The kitchen smelled of peppermint and old wood, a smell David had come to associate with safety. The late afternoon sunlight fell through the lace curtains, dust motes dancing in the beams like tiny golden spirits.

David moved silently, careful not to wake his grandmother unnecessarily. He pulled a kettle from the stove, already warmed, and poured the water over the tea leaves. The steam curled upward, soft and fragrant, filling the small kitchen. He held the teapot close, inhaling the scent and letting his hands absorb the warmth.

Marion shuffled in, cane tapping gently against the linoleum. Her silver hair caught the sunlight, and her eyes softened when she saw him.

“You’re making tea, David? That’s kind of you,” she said.

He smiled faintly, careful to keep the expression light, neutral. “I thought you might like a cup before dinner. Chamomile?”

She nodded and leaned on her cane. “Chamomile is good for the nerves, you know. You’ve had quite a few things on your mind lately.”

David said nothing at first, focusing on pouring the tea into two delicate cups. Steam spiraled into the air, curling over the rims. He carried them to the small wooden table by the window. The city outside seemed distant here, muffled by layers of brick, glass, and history.

Marion sat down, sighing softly. She lifted the cup to her lips, inhaling the warm aroma. “You’ve grown so much, David. Not just in size… in presence. I can feel it, even in small things. The way you move, the way you look at the world.”

David looked at her, face calm, almost serene. He said to himself quietly, “If only she knew the truth behind it.”

He placed his cup in front of him, the warmth seeping through his fingers. “I’m… learning,” he said aloud, letting the words be light, conversational. “Life teaches fast when you listen.”

Marion smiled, eyes crinkling. “Ah, yes. Life teaches fast. And sometimes, the lessons are bitter. But still… there’s sweetness if you notice it.”

David nodded slowly. He lifted his cup and watched the steam rise. He said to himself, “Sweetness… fleeting. But it exists.”

The afternoon sunlight shifted, casting long, golden shadows across the table. David’s mind wandered for a moment. He thought of the Parkers, Marissa, Troy, Lucas. He thought of Daniel Morgan, still breathing somewhere in Manhattan, unaware of what was coming. But here, in this kitchen, those thoughts stayed buried, like dark roots beneath calm soil.

Marion spoke again, her voice soft, warm. “Do you remember when you were little, David? You used to help me in the garden. You’d plant seeds and water them… and you were so serious about it, as if those plants were the most important things in the world.”

David let a small, genuine smile creep onto his face. “I remember,” he said quietly. “I liked seeing things grow. Watching life happen. Even little things… they mattered.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. The gesture was simple, but it carried weight. “They still matter, David. Even if the world outside is cruel, even if people are unkind, you can choose what matters to you. Choose who you are in small moments.”

David looked down at her hand, then back at the cup in front of him. The liquid swirled gently, golden under the fading light. He said to himself quietly, “Small moments… yes. I can hold onto them. I have to. Otherwise…”

He didn’t finish the thought aloud. The silence was enough. Marion didn’t press. She only smiled and sipped her tea.

For a while, the only sounds were the clink of the cup on the saucer, the soft hiss of steam, and the distant hum of Manhattan traffic. David listened, letting the normalcy wrap around him like a cloak. He found it comforting, strange as it was, that life could feel ordinary even when it wasn’t.

Marion spoke again, softly, almost as if testing the quiet. “Do you think about the future, David? What you’ll do, who you’ll be?”

David said nothing immediately. He stared at the tea, the sunlight, the old wooden table. Then he lifted his gaze to her, calm and collected. “I do,” he said, measured. “I think about it. I… want to be someone steady. Someone who can… control things.”

She nodded. “Control… yes, that’s important. But remember… even control must be tempered with kindness. Even someone strong should remember softness.”

David didn’t respond, but he said to himself quietly, “Softness… I remember it. I’ll keep it here, locked away. For now, it is enough.”

They sat together in silence, drinking their tea. Shadows lengthened, the sun dipping below the rooftops. Outside, the city moved, oblivious to the quiet storm building elsewhere. Inside, there was warmth, ritual, and a fragile sense of normalcy.

David said to himself one last time, “This is the moment I can hold. Just for now.”

And for a few golden minutes, nothing else existed but tea, sunlight, and Marion’s quiet presence.