The boy held the warm cup in both hands, steam curling up toward his glasses. He looked small, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, feet not quite touching the floor.
"I'm Ayan," he said softly. "I used to see you walking your mom in the garden. She waved at me once."
Maya nodded, her smile tight.
"She waved at everyone."
Ayan took a sip. "This tastes like stories."
Maya blinked. "Like what?"
"I dunno," he shrugged. "Like something old and kind. My grandma used to make tea like this. Before she... before she left too."
The words hung heavy but didn't break anything. In that room of memories, shared silence felt like healing.
He placed the book on the table - The Secret Garden, its cover bent, corners worn.
"She used to read this with me," he mumbled. "But it's boring alone."
Maya touched the edge of the book, just as she had with her mother's letter.
"Well," she said, standing up, "what if we read it together?"
Ayan lit up in a way that reminded her of younger days - of evenings filled with stories, of her mother's gentle voice weaving magic into mundane pages.
As Maya read aloud, her voice wavered at first, like a violin string too long untouched. But by the second page, it grew steadier, warmer. Ayan listened with his eyes closed, lips curled in a half-smile, as if the words were carrying him somewhere safe.
That night, when the storm passed and Ayan left with a promise to return tomorrow, Maya sat back at the table.
Two empty mugs.
For the first time, neither felt lonely.
---