She moves slowly in the kitchen, each gesture unhurried, as if any rush might break the fragile quiet. The morning light is gentle, pooling on the worn counter top where she sets the kettle, filling it from the tap. The water drips in her hands, her fingers colder than she expected, and she lets them linger a little longer under the stream before turning it off. As the kettle begins to hum, she reaches for the tin, lifting the lid to inhale the faint, floral scent of the leaves. The rose tea, her grandmother’s favorite, has faded over time, but it’s still there, the memory of it clinging to her senses.

She thinks of her grandmother’s hands, worn and gentle, steady as they poured the tea, stirring in milk with the same delicate swirl every time. The water boils. She pours it over the leaves, watching them unfurl and bloom in the steaming liquid. The air fills with the scent of roses, a soft perfume that takes her back—to that small kitchen with lace curtains, sunlight filtering through, dust dancing in the warm beams. Her grandmother’s laugh, a sound that had wrapped around her like a blanket. It lingers here, just for a moment, in the curl of steam rising from the mug.

She pours the milk last, watching as it spills through the tea like clouds rolling over the sky. Tepid, just as her grandmother had preferred it. She cradles the cup in her hands, breathing in the warmth and the memory, holding onto the scent, the taste, the feel of something she once took for granted.

She takes the first sip, the tea warm and comforting against the chill of her hands, and feels a pang in her chest. The grief is a slow, steady ache, like a bruise that never quite fades. It has been months now since her grandmother passed, and yet it feels as though she only left yesterday. The house is quieter without her, the small spaces that used to hum with soft voices and the rhythm of routine now hollow. There are moments when she still expects to hear the familiar shuffle of her grandmother's slippers on the old wooden floor, or catch the faint scent of lavender from the shawl she always wore.

But it never comes. And so she keeps moving through the days, each one a little more distant from the life she once shared with the woman who had raised her. 

She sets the cup down on the counter and runs her fingers over the chipped edge of the teacup. It had been one of her grandmother’s favorites. She recalls the way it used to feel to sit at the table, tea between them, talking about everything and nothing. There were mornings when the conversation flowed like the tea itself—easy and uninterrupted, her grandmother’s voice steady with the wisdom of years. But more often than not, the silence between them was just as comforting, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need words to speak volumes. 

And yet, as much as she had loved her grandmother, she realizes with a weight in her chest, she hadn't always listened. Not fully. How many times had she been lost in her own thoughts, distracted by the pull of her busy life, not noticing the subtle ways her grandmother had begun to change? How many moments had she let slip by, thinking there would always be time? Always time to ask more questions, to sit a little longer, to hold her hand a little tighter.

She remembers the last time they spoke—how she had been in such a rush, barely pausing when her grandmother had tried to share one last story. "I'll tell you later, Grandma," she'd said, her voice absent. “I’ve got to go.”

And now, there’s no later. No more stories. No more time.

The kettle clicks off, and she stands there, staring at the empty mug before her. A deep ache wells up, tight and insistent. If only she could go back, just for a moment. If only she had asked more questions, paid closer attention to the small details that had once seemed so inconsequential. But now, all that’s left is a cup of tea, a few fading memories, and a longing that she can’t quite silence.

Her grandmother had always said that tea was more than just a drink; it was a ritual, a pause in time where everything could settle into its right place. But now, the ritual feels broken, the pause never quite enough. The sadness is a quiet one, the kind that settles deep into her bones, that she carries with her like an extra weight, unseen but always there.

She picks up the cup again, her fingers trembling slightly, and takes another sip. The taste of the rose tea is the same, but everything else is different. The world has shifted. The quiet is heavier. The tea, though still warm, feels a little colder than it should.

And in the stillness of the kitchen, she lets herself feel it all—the regret, the grief, the loss. The things left unsaid. The things left undone. She sets the cup back down and closes her eyes, whispering a prayer to the woman who once filled this space with laughter, with wisdom, with love.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs into the air, as if the silence can hear her. 

But it’s only the kitchen that answers, its quiet hum echoing the words she wishes she could have said, just a little sooner.