Ama worked in a little bookstore tucked between a bakery and a tailor's shop in a busy part of the city. She loved the way the pages of new novels smelled, and how people would wander in off the street for a book and stay for a conversation.
Every afternoon at 3:00, she brewed a pot of hibiscus tea - her grandmother's recipe - and poured a small cup for herself and one for whoever was browsing. "You don't have to buy anything," she would say. "Just sip and sit."
One rainy Thursday, Kelechi walked in.
He wasn't looking for a book. He was running from the rain, his coat dripping and his shoes squishing. He blinked at Ama, startled by the warmth of the store. She handed him a cup without asking.
"This is... hibiscus?" he asked, eyebrows raised after the first sip.
"With cloves and ginger," she smiled. "Stormy days need bold flavors."
He stayed. For an hour. Said he liked how quiet the shop felt - like a library, but softer.
The next day, he returned. And the next. And the next.
Always at 3:00. Always for the tea.
They talked about everything: why she loved poetry, why he hated it; how he couldn't cook to save his life, and how she once burnt rice so badly the pot still bore the scar. They argued about jazz vs. highlife music. They made playlists. They exchanged glances that lingered a bit longer each day.
But neither said anything about what was slowly growing between them - not until the day Ama ran out of hibiscus.
She panicked, turning jars and drawers upside down. Just as she was about to close the shop early, Kelechi walked in holding a small brown paper bag.
"Thought you might need this," he said, holding it out. Inside were dried hibiscus petals, still fragrant from the market. "I overheard you mention you were running low."
Ama stared at him.
"You remembered?"
"I remember everything," he said, softly. "Every cup, every story, every smile."
The kettle whistled.
She brewed the tea. He sipped.
Then, without a word, he reached for her hand - not with urgency, but with familiarity. As if this had always been the plan.
And so it became their ritual.
Two cups. Every day.
Not just tea - but love, steeped slowly.
Every afternoon at 3:00, she brewed a pot of hibiscus tea - her grandmother's recipe - and poured a small cup for herself and one for whoever was browsing. "You don't have to buy anything," she would say. "Just sip and sit."
One rainy Thursday, Kelechi walked in.
He wasn't looking for a book. He was running from the rain, his coat dripping and his shoes squishing. He blinked at Ama, startled by the warmth of the store. She handed him a cup without asking.
"This is... hibiscus?" he asked, eyebrows raised after the first sip.
"With cloves and ginger," she smiled. "Stormy days need bold flavors."
He stayed. For an hour. Said he liked how quiet the shop felt - like a library, but softer.
The next day, he returned. And the next. And the next.
Always at 3:00. Always for the tea.
They talked about everything: why she loved poetry, why he hated it; how he couldn't cook to save his life, and how she once burnt rice so badly the pot still bore the scar. They argued about jazz vs. highlife music. They made playlists. They exchanged glances that lingered a bit longer each day.
But neither said anything about what was slowly growing between them - not until the day Ama ran out of hibiscus.
She panicked, turning jars and drawers upside down. Just as she was about to close the shop early, Kelechi walked in holding a small brown paper bag.
"Thought you might need this," he said, holding it out. Inside were dried hibiscus petals, still fragrant from the market. "I overheard you mention you were running low."
Ama stared at him.
"You remembered?"
"I remember everything," he said, softly. "Every cup, every story, every smile."
The kettle whistled.
She brewed the tea. He sipped.
Then, without a word, he reached for her hand - not with urgency, but with familiarity. As if this had always been the plan.
And so it became their ritual.
Two cups. Every day.
Not just tea - but love, steeped slowly.
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