The Dreaming Tea

This morning unfolded in a way I had not planned, though I am learning that very few mornings ever truly follow the shape I imagine for them the night before.

The inn had been quieter than usual when I woke, the kind of hush that lingers after deep rain even when the sky is clear. My body still felt heavy from the lingering effects of a sickness that had passed through me recently, something carried on cold air and careless coughing travelers. My voice had not yet returned to its usual steadiness and when I spoke aloud to test it, it came out low and rough, like gravel beneath water. I brewed myself a simple cup of ginger and honey before opening the doors, hoping warmth would coax my strength back gently rather than demand it all at once.

Not long after the sun had climbed high enough to brush the windows with gold, a small group arrived through one of the nearer realm doors. They were not travelers in the traditional sense, no armor or packed satchels, but caretakers from a nearby district who often bring young ones to the inn when they need a place that feels safe and calm. The Dreaming Tea Inn has always welcomed such visits. Children sense the nature of this place instinctively, I think. They move through it without hesitation, as though it speaks a language they already know.

There were only a handful today, all quite small, none older than five. Their steps were uneven, their voices bright, their energy spilling freely into every corner of the main hall. I set aside my plans for inventory and restocking without a second thought. Some days ask to be shaped around others rather than around oneself.

We spent the morning in the sunlit corner near the hearth where the floor stays warm even in colder seasons. I brought out baskets of simple toys the inn keeps tucked away, wooden shapes, soft fabric animals stitched long ago by travelers who needed something to occupy their hands while waiting. Someone found the bubble charm almost immediately, and soon the air shimmered with floating spheres that popped softly against the ceiling beams. Laughter echoed, light and unrestrained.

It was calm in a way that surprised me. No frantic energy, no sharp edges. Just movement, color, and sound, layered gently. I sat with them, my back against one of the low tables, watching as they discovered small wonders as though they were great treasures. One pressed their face close to the floor to watch the reflection of bubbles in the polished wood. Another stacked cups with careful concentration, tongue peeking out between their teeth.

At some point, one of the inn’s attendants from outside the main hall stepped in quietly. He does not often cross into this space when children are present, preferring to keep to the laundry rooms and supply corridors tucked behind the walls. He paused, just inside the doorway, and looked around with a thoughtful expression before setting his basket of linens down.

“This room feels different today,” he said, his voice low so as not to disturb the children. “Very calm. Like it is breathing slowly.”

I felt my face warm at the comment, caught off guard by it. Compliments still sit strangely with me, especially on days when I feel far from polished or capable. My hair was loosely tied back, my voice still rough, my energy not quite where it usually rests. I thanked him quietly and returned my attention to the children, though his words stayed with me longer than I expected, settling into the back of my thoughts like a smooth stone placed there intentionally.

When the caretakers returned to collect the little ones, each left with a story tumbling from their mouth all at once. Castles made of tables. Invisible creatures living near the stairs. Bubbles that almost touched the lanterns. I watched them go, the inn dimming just slightly as the energy shifted again, and felt that familiar blend of relief and fondness that always follows moments of shared care.

Later in the afternoon, I had an appointment of my own across the district. Nothing urgent, just a routine healing check that I had postponed more than once. I walked there slowly, letting the movement stretch the stiffness from my body. The healer was kind and unhurried, commenting that my strength was returning well, though I should be mindful of rest. I promised her I would try, knowing full well how often I forget such promises when the inn is full.

On my way back, hunger reminded me of itself sharply. I stopped at a small roadside eatery just off Pearlstone Market, a place that serves simple comfort meals meant to be eaten slowly. I ordered a bowl of creamy grain noodles with soft greens mixed through and watched the steam rise while I waited. When it arrived, I ate with intention, noticing the texture, the warmth, the way my shoulders relaxed with each bite.

I lingered longer than necessary, watching other patrons come and go, children struggling earnestly with oversized utensils, elders laughing softly over shared plates. There is something grounding about witnessing ordinary moments like these, moments that do not ask anything of you except presence.

Before returning to the inn, I stopped by a small stall near the market’s edge that sells inexpensive trinkets and playthings. Many of the items within the inn have been donated by travelers over time, loved but worn thin. I picked up a few simple toys, small water charms that mimic washing dishes, knowing they would delight the next group of little ones who wandered through. The stallkeeper smiled knowingly as she wrapped them, as though she understood exactly where they were headed.

Back at the inn, the afternoon brought its usual mix of quiet challenges. One child visiting with their parents struggled deeply with being left even for a short time. I tried gentle redirection, offering art supplies and familiar music, but sometimes comfort cannot be rushed. When tears would not ease, I followed protocol and called their caretaker back sooner than planned. It never feels good, making that choice, even when it is the right one.

Another young visitor arrived later in the day, one I have come to know well over time. They experience the world differently, more intensely, and I have learned that preparation matters more than improvisation for them. I made sure their favorite chair was set aside, drawing paper already laid out, familiar sounds humming softly in the background. They settled almost immediately, shoulders loosening as their focus narrowed into creation. Watching them draw with such absorption reminded me that art often speaks where words falter, and that accommodation is not indulgence but respect.

As evening approached, I found myself thinking about work, about paths taken and paths still uncertain. The inn provides for me, though modestly. There are days when I wish it offered more tangible security, more coin, more certainty. Finding balance between calling and survival has never been easy. I have considered expanding, teaching, building something beyond these walls, but space, resources, and timing have not yet aligned.

I have known stretches of searching, of interviews and near opportunities that dissolve quietly without explanation. I have learned to be grateful for where I am, even as I wish for more. Both truths can exist together, I think.

Some nights, I dream of studying again, of formal learning that sharpens the skills I already carry. Other nights, my thoughts drift toward distant realms I have not yet visited, places spoken of with reverence and curiosity. I have always been drawn to stories from other worlds, animated tales and long dramas that unfold slowly, teaching patience and emotion through art. Lately, I have not watched much of anything at all, finding myself instead lost in endless scrolling thoughts that leave me more tired than before.

This year, I have decided to be more intentional. To write again. To sit with myself and ask what truly brings joy rather than distraction. It has not been an easy start. Illness took its toll early on, leaving me frustrated with my own limits. But I am still here. Still opening the doors each morning. Still listening when the inn hums softly beneath my feet.

And perhaps that counts for more than I often give it credit for.

Tonight, the inn is quiet again. Lanterns glow steadily. The toys I brought rest neatly in their basket, waiting for small hands. I sip my tea slowly and let the day settle into memory, imperfect, gentle, and real.

Until next time,

Ella

Owner of The Dreaming Tea Inn