The Last Cup of Chai

It was a rainy evening when Anaya walked into the old teashop near the train station — the one she used to visit every week with her father. The wooden benches were still creaky, the glass cups still slightly chipped, and the aroma of cardamom and ginger chai hung in the air like an old song.

She sat at their usual table by the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The tea vendor, an elderly man with kind eyes, recognized her immediately. “It’s been a while,” he said gently.

Anaya nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “One chai… just like before.”

As he poured the steaming tea into the cup, her memory drifted to that last visit with her father, just a few days before he passed away. They had laughed about silly things, talked about her dreams, and made plans they never got to fulfill. He had told her, “Promise me you won’t stop coming here, even if I’m not around. Let this be our place, always.”

She hadn’t come since.

The tea arrived, warm and fragrant, just like he liked it. She held it in her hands, letting the warmth melt the ache in her chest. With every sip, the silence between then and now seemed to fade.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled.

He was gone. But in this small teashop, through the rain, the chai, and the memories — he was still with her.