I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The empty chair, the shattered teacup, and the eerie silence that followed—it all felt too real. For days, I wandered through the house, hoping to find some explanation, some trace of her, but the place seemed emptier than ever.
Then, one night, a week later, I heard it. The faint sound of clinking china, coming from the kitchen. My heart raced as I walked down the hallway. The house was dark, and every shadow seemed to crawl toward me. I hesitated at the door, but the sound of stirring tea was unmistakable.
Inside the kitchen, there she was, sitting at the table with a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Her back was turned to me, but I knew it was her. My wife. Her presence felt both familiar and foreign at the same time, as though I was seeing a ghost that belonged here.
“Why are you still here?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Without turning, she raised the teacup to her lips, took a slow sip, and finally spoke. “You promised me… one last cup.”
The weight of her words hung in the air like a curse. I realized in that moment, the tea—the ritual—was not just a habit. It was binding. It had become something far more sinister than either of us could have imagined.
I wanted to run, to leave the house and never return, but my feet were rooted to the spot. My wife stood up slowly, her movements unnaturally smooth, and turned to face me. Her eyes were hollow, void of life, but her expression was calm, almost serene. She extended her hand toward me, and I felt a pull deep within myself, like something ancient and dark had taken hold.
“You can’t leave,” she whispered. “It’s time for your cup now.”
I felt a cold chill wrap around my body as I watched her pour another cup of tea. The liquid inside was darker than before, swirling as if it contained something far more sinister than leaves. She handed it to me, and without thinking, I took it.
As I lifted the cup to my lips, I saw the truth in her eyes. This wasn’t the end. This was only the beginning.