The Distance Between Two Cups of Tea

The teahouse opened at nine every morning, but Song An arrived at eight-thirty, like she always did. She liked the quiet before the city decided who it needed her to be that day.

The shop sat at the edge of an old alley in Suzhou, half hidden by a persimmon tree that refused to die even in winter. The wooden sign creaked when the wind was sharp. Inside, the air smelled of roasted leaves and warm water.

At nine o’clock exactly, the bell on the door rang.

He came in every Tuesday.

At first, Song An thought of him as the man with the blue scarf. He always wore it, wrapped once around his neck, ends tucked neatly into his coat. He never ordered from the menu. Just said, “The usual is fine,” even though she had never asked what that meant.

She gave him Tieguanyin the first time because it was what she was drinking herself. He nodded, satisfied, and took the seat by the window.

After that, it became his tea.

They did not speak much. He read. She worked. Sometimes their eyes met, and they nodded, like two people who shared a secret that didn’t need explaining.

Song An was thirty-one and tired of explaining her life. Why she left her office job. Why she stayed single. Why she chose a teahouse over something louder and more ambitious. The quiet here felt earned.

One Tuesday, rain fell hard enough to blur the street into moving shadows. The man with the blue scarf stayed longer than usual. When Song An brought hot water to refresh his leaves, he looked up.

“You don’t close early in this weather?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Some people don’t like to be alone when it rains.”

He smiled at that. “Then I’m glad you’re open.”

It was the longest conversation they’d had.

The next week, he brought pastries from the bakery down the street. He placed them on the counter without comment. Song An raised an eyebrow.

“For the tea,” he said. “It deserves something sweet.”

She laughed, surprised by the sound of it.

“My name is Song An,” she said, finally.

“Lu Cheng,” he replied. “I was wondering how long we’d pretend names didn’t matter.”

After that, things shifted, just slightly. They talked more. About books. About how the city had changed too quickly. About how some things felt heavier with age, not lighter.

Lu Cheng told her he restored old furniture. Chairs, tables, cabinets no one wanted anymore. He liked working with things that had already lived a life.

Song An understood that more than she expected.

Winter deepened. Red lanterns appeared along the street as Chinese New Year approached. The alley grew busier, noisier. Song An found herself watching the door on Tuesdays, waiting for the blue scarf.

On the last Tuesday before the holiday, Lu Cheng didn’t come.

She told herself it was nothing. People traveled. Lives continued beyond teahouses.

Still, when she closed that night, the quiet felt different. Empty, not peaceful.

He returned the following week, scarf gone, hair damp with cold.

“I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “My mother fell. I went home.”

“Is she okay?” Song An asked.

“She will be,” he said. “I stayed longer than planned.”

She poured his tea with steady hands. “I’m glad you’re back.”

He looked at her then, really looked, like he’d been holding something back.

“Would you walk with me after you close?” he asked. “Just tonight.”

They walked along the canal, lanterns reflecting on dark water. Firecrackers echoed in the distance. The air smelled of smoke and sugar.

“I don’t usually ask,” Lu Cheng said. “I’ve learned to keep things contained. Safer that way.”

Song An listened.

“But every Tuesday,” he continued, “I felt like I could breathe a little more. Like something was waiting for me.”

She stopped walking. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

He smiled, a little sad. “Because I didn’t want to break it by naming it.”

She stepped closer. “Some things don’t break that easily.”

They stood there, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Lu Cheng reached for her hand, slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

Chinese New Year came and went. Fireworks bloomed and faded. Families gathered and separated again. The teahouse reopened on the eighth day.

Lu Cheng came on Tuesday.

Then Wednesday.

Then days that were not part of any pattern at all.

They learned each other in small ways. How Song An hummed when she cleaned. How Lu Cheng always fixed crooked things instead of ignoring them. How silence between them felt like rest, not distance.

One evening, months later, Song An poured two cups of tea and set them between them on the low table by the window.

“There isn’t much space between these,” she said.

Lu Cheng smiled. “There doesn’t need to be.”

Outside, the persimmon tree bloomed again, stubborn and bright. And inside the teahouse, something quiet and lasting took root, not rushed, not loud, but real in the way that mattered most.