“Does the tea always have shapes?” she pondered, tracing invisible lines in the air. The sun flickered like a playful kitten, and the shadows danced, forming silent words on the wall.
The old man nodded at the empty chair. “You must listen carefully,” he said, his voice like the raspy whisper of wind through a thousand dry leaves. “The runes read themselves in moments unbidden.”
“Ironic, isn't it? That the moon only shines on the truth when no one's watching,” he murmured, his gaze lost in the swirling mist of a forgotten memory.
A child’s laughter echoed from somewhere beyond the horizon. The sound was both familiar and strange, like echoes of joy from another lifetime.