The Dreaming Tea

This morning, the parents left just after sunrise.

They did not linger long, but they did not rush either. Packs were checked, straps tightened, small hands held for an extra moment before being let go. There were promises made quietly, the kind meant more to soothe than to guarantee anything. I watched from near the counter as they stepped through one of the inn’s crossings and disappeared into that familiar fold of light.

The children stood very still until the glow faded. Then the inn shifted. It always does when little ones are left behind. The air softened. The light settled lower along the walls. The hearth breathed out a steady warmth, as if reminding everyone that they were safe, that there was no need to hurry anywhere just yet.

At first, they stayed close. Some followed me as I moved about the hall, asking small questions, pointing at jars and lanterns they had seen many times before but never tired of noticing again. Others sat together on the floor, watching the doors as if expecting them to open at any moment.

Eventually, the stillness gave way. A blanket slid from a chair and was claimed immediately. Cushions were pulled closer. The space changed without anyone announcing it. The main hall became something else, something temporary and important, the way children always manage to make things.

Later, when the energy began to swell again, we gathered near the stage and let the Echo Sphere wake. It projected an old favorite, a gentle mystery filled with silly voices and exaggerated fright. The children laughed easily, leaning into one another, calling out when they recognized a scene. Even those who wandered away came back again, drawn by familiar sounds and shared excitement. Scooby Doo, it seems, is welcome in any realm.

When the story ended, restlessness returned quickly, as it often does. Bodies that have sat too long need to move. So we cleared a small space, just enough, and played a gentler game. A softer version of soccer, adjusted for small feet and close walls. The ball rolled slowly, laughter following it wherever it went.

Someone found the bubble wand not long after. Soon, the air filled with shimmering spheres drifting lazily through the hall. The children raised their hands and shouted warnings, declaring the bubbles arrows flying toward the city they had built earlier. They blocked them with outstretched arms, ducked beneath them, and celebrated every successful save with loud approval. No arrows ever struck their mark.

In between it all, I held the youngest of them, barely ten months old, warm and heavy in my arms. He nestled close when I gave him his bottle, eyes growing soft, breath slowing just enough that I was certain sleep would claim him.

It did not.

The moment he finished, he wriggled happily, wide awake again, ready to return to the floor and the world waiting there. I set him down gently and watched as he crawled toward the others, completely content, as if cuddling and playing were simply two parts of the same joy.

By the time the parents returned, the day had already settled into something quieter. The ball rested in a corner. The bubbles had faded. A blanket remained folded where someone had tried, earnestly, to put things back the way they had been.

The children ran to familiar arms, voices overlapping as they shared pieces of the day that mattered most to them. I stood back, as I often do, letting the reunions belong to themselves.

After the doors closed again and the inn returned to its usual rhythm, I brewed a cup of tea and sat for a while without writing. The morning had taken more from me than I realized. The tea helped. After that, the rest of the day seemed to find its place all on its own.

Until next time,

Ella

Owner of the Dreaming Tea Inn