Fog and Chamomile

The bell above the door gave a weary chime as Patricia stepped into the shop, trailing fog and damp wool behind her. Her coat was a deep charcoal, its hem wet from the street, and a small netted mourning veil clung to the brim of her hat. Wisps of chestnut hair escaped the pinned roll beneath it. Her eyes, green, reddened, restless, scanned the shop like someone waking from a nightmare and not quite sure if they’d truly left it behind.

The gaslight outside flickered, throwing shadows across the window sign: Ash & Ember — Restorative Teas. Beyond the pane, the fog hung thick and low, curling around cobblestones and lampposts like something half-alive. Somewhere distant, hooves clacked and a cart wheel groaned as it passed over uneven stone.

Inside, the warmth greeted her like a hush. The scent of dried herbs and worn wood filled the air, layered faintly with smoke from the small iron stove in the corner. A cracked tile beneath it gave off the occasional snap, and the kettle on its ring hissed a soft counterpoint to the silence.

Glass jars lined the shelves, each labeled in fine, careful script—lavender, valerian, hyssop, lemon balm. A threadbare rug muted footfalls, and the floorboards creaked only when they wanted to be noticed.

No one else sat at the small round tables. Only the man behind the counter—tall and lean, with ash-toned skin and black hair streaked with silver. His eyes, grey-blue and hollow with sleeplessness, flicked toward her without surprise. His waistcoat was buttoned clean to the collar, sleeves rolled above the wrist with surgical precision. A linen apron dusted with chamomile and ink stained his left cuff.

He didn’t smile. But he nodded, once, and poured hot water into a waiting teapot. The copper kettle’s spout hissed a soft curl of steam.

Patricia hesitated just inside the doorway, as if unsure she’d found the right place.

"Cold night," Robert said, his voice even. "You’ll want something warm."

She stepped forward. Removed her black gloves with a mechanical care and tucked them into her coat pocket. Sat.

"They said you could help," she said softly. "That you... take things. Things people can’t carry anymore."

Robert didn’t look up. He poured the tea.

"I serve tea," he said. Then he pushed the cup gently toward her. "Drink while it’s hot."

She cupped the porcelain carefully, not yet drinking. Her hands shook, just enough to make the surface ripple. The veins in her fingers stood out pale against the glaze.

"You don’t ask why people come?" she said, not looking at him.

"Not usually."

"Even if they offer to pay?"

He glanced at her then. Not with interest—with caution. "Pay for what?"

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her coat and placed two sovereigns on the table between them.

"For forgetting. Just one memory. I don’t want to dream it anymore. I don’t want to see it."

Robert looked at the coins, then at her. "I don’t take payment."

"I don’t care. Take it anyway. Take all of it."

The tea between them steamed gently. He made no move to touch the money. Instead, he asked:

"Whose memory is it?"

"My son’s," she said. The words emerged too quickly, as if they had been waiting in her throat, pressed tight by silence.

Robert didn’t respond.

She took a shallow breath. "He was playing by the river. I wasn’t... I wasn’t there. I didn’t hear him."

Outside, a cart rolled past, wheels hissing over the wet stone. The shop seemed to draw in tighter.

"It wasn’t a storm. Wasn’t a flood. He just slipped. Just... fell."

Her fingers tightened around the teacup. "I sent him out. I— I needed a moment to finish hosting. He kept interrupting. I told him to go play."

Still, Robert said nothing. Just waited, like a man watching a fire burn itself down.

Patricia blinked hard, eyes fixed on the rising steam. "I just needed five minutes. That’s all I wanted. And he... he didn’t come back."

The tea sat between them, cooling. The scent of chamomile and mint hung gently in the air, neither comforting nor cruel.

"There were guests," she continued, almost whispering now. "I was smiling. Laughing. Pouring wine. I didn’t even notice how quiet it had gone. Not until they left. Not until the light started fading and I realized..."

Her voice cracked. She touched the rim of the teacup like it might anchor her.

"He always found the worst places to slip into the river. Little coves with steep drops and broken stone. I knew that. But I told him to go. And he listened."

Robert finally spoke, his voice softer than before. "You loved him."

She nodded. Then shook her head. Then nodded again. "Yes. But that’s not what matters. I loved him—and I still sent him away. That’s the part that won’t leave me. That’s what I need gone."

Robert glanced down at the teacup she hadn’t touched. He turned his own slowly in place—once, twice—before answering.

"I wasn’t always behind this counter. I was a street rat. Grew up cold and hungry in London’s alleys. Thought if I had knowledge—real knowledge—I could build something better. So I took it. Not from books. From minds."

Patricia looked up.

"There was a man. A merchant. Respected. Wealthy. He’d built his life from nothing. For his daughters. His wife. I took what he knew. Not memories of faces—but the spine of his mind. How to manage, how to grow, how to lead. I made his brilliance mine."

He paused.

"And it broke him. Left a man who knew the names of his children but not how to hold them. Who could tie a cravat but not remember why he dressed for work."

She stared.

"He works here now. Cleans the back room. Watches the window. Most mornings, he forgets why."

Her breath caught. The cup in her hand slipped. It shattered on the floor.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Robert stood, knelt, began to clean the shards.

"It wasn’t just an accident," she whispered. "I wanted him gone. Just for a while. Just one hour without him underfoot. And that’s the thought I had as he walked out the door."

Robert looked at her.

"Then what you’re carrying isn’t just grief. It’s guilt. And guilt doesn’t fade with forgetting. It festers. It claws. It waits."

"So take it," she said. "Please. If I can’t forgive myself... maybe I can forget myself."

He stood. Came around the table.

"Let me offer something else. Not to forget him. Just this place. And me. And what you came here for."

She stared. "Please. Just help me."

He took her hand. A shimmer passed through her eyes.

"Sorry," she said, blinking. "Not sure why I came in. But your shop looked warm. I think I’ve been sleeping better lately. Just still feel tired."

He smiled. "That’s reason enough."

"Have we met before?"

"No," Robert said. "But I hope we will."

She left. The bell rang. The scent of tea lingered.

Behind the counter, Robert turned away from the window. The back door opened. William stepped out, drying his hands with a towel already damp from polishing the same mug twice. He still tied the shop’s invoices into neat little bundles, though Robert had never asked him to.

"She looked lighter," he said.

Robert said nothing.

"Will she come again?"

"If she needs to."

William paused.

"Funny. Sometimes I feel like I used to know how to make something stronger than chamomile. Not just tea. Something that mattered."

Robert froze.

"Maybe you did," he said. "Once."