Arun hated mornings. Or maybe he hated mornings with magical rules he didn't know existed. Either way, the day began with him carrying a tray of Winter Plum tea to the counter and thinking he was perfectly competent.
"Don't tilt the tray," Madam Ione said casually, eyes on him as she adjusted a jar of herbs.
"I'm aware," Arun muttered, gripping the tray like it contained a ticking bomb instead of tea.
"You were not aware five seconds ago," she said, deadpan, smirking faintly. "Step one: honesty."
He scowled. "Right. Step one: survive teahouse critique."
Arun made it three steps before disaster struck. He misjudged the corner of the counter. The tray tipped. Tea sloshed.
For a normal person, it would have been a mess.
For Arun, it was a magical explosion.
Steam shot up like a miniature geyser, shimmering gold and violet. Jars rattled. Tiny sparks of light danced across the shelves. Arun jumped back, tripping over his own feet and narrowly avoiding face-planting into a low shelf.
"…Okay. That's new," he said, voice rising in panic. "That is definitely new!"
The man from the previous day peeked from a corner, wide-eyed. "Is… is it supposed to do that?"
"I have no idea!" Arun shouted. His sarcasm was thin, a mask for panic. "…I was just carrying tea!"
Madam Ione appeared behind him with the speed of someone who had done this hundreds of times. She waved a hand, and the sparks curled into the tray like obedient fireflies. Steam calmed. The jars settled.
"Rule seventeen," she said quietly, tilting her head at him. "Do not spill the tea."
"I was… unaware of rule seventeen!" Arun said, gesturing helplessly. "…How many rules are there?"
"Not enough," she said, deadpan. "Step eighteen: pay attention."
Arun groaned and picked up the tray again, careful this time. That's when he noticed movement in the corner — a blur of orange fur and golden eyes that didn't belong to any human, cat, or normal animal he knew.
"Well, that's new too," he muttered.
The creature, small but impossibly sleek, perched on the edge of the counter, tail curling in a lazy spiral. Its eyes glittered like molten amber.
"You're not part of the safety inspection team," Arun said, cautiously, because he wasn't sure how many rules it was allowed to break.
The fox spirit tilted its head. Arun swore it smirked. Then it leapt onto the tray, paws landing in the remaining droplets of tea, and everything glowed bright violet. The air smelled faintly of citrus and firecrackers.
Arun froze. "…Oh no."
Madam Ione sighed, moving her hands in a slow, deliberate pattern. The fox glimmered and shimmered, then dissipated in a small puff of smoke, leaving the tray intact but now hovering slightly above the counter, wobbling gently.
Arun blinked. "…I… don't know what just happened."
"That," Madam Ione said calmly, "is why step nineteen exists: never underestimate mystical fauna."
He rubbed his temples. "…I have no idea what I signed up for."
"And yet," she added lightly, "you did."
Arun's sarcasm faltered. He stared at the floating tray, realizing that beneath the chaos, the teahouse wasn't just about serving tea. It was about navigating lives, magic, and grief — all tangled together.
The man from yesterday cleared his throat, hesitant. "I… I'm sorry, but… is it always like this?"
Arun looked at him. "…More or less."
"And it's safe?" the man asked, uncertainty in his voice.
Arun sighed. "…Mostly. If you don't mind occasionally hovering cups and teleporting foxes."
Madam Ione gave him a look that could have been described as pleased mischief. "Mostly," she repeated, tone calm but sharp. "You'll learn."
Arun ran a hand down his face. "I'm starting to think sarcasm is useless here."
"Not useless," she said lightly, "but insufficient."
The fox spirit reappeared in the corner, sitting neatly and grooming itself as if nothing had happened, though Arun felt certain it was judging him.
"…You're lucky I have empathy," Arun muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Otherwise I'd throw this tray out the window."
"You'd regret that," Madam Ione said dryly, glancing at him with one raised brow. "We'd all regret that."
Arun exhaled slowly. Empathy and sarcasm warred in his chest. He didn't like it, but he realized — grudgingly — that he was starting to care about people in this place. Not just the customers. Not just Madam. Not even the fox. But somehow, all of it.
"…I hate that," he said quietly.
"You'll get used to that too," Madam Ione said, deadpan, turning back to the kettle.
The teahouse hummed softly, jars glimmered faintly, and the tray floated steadily above the counter, as if testing Arun's resolve.
He stared at it and muttered under his breath, "…I'm definitely going to need more coffee."