The steam from the teacup curls gently upward, catching the morning light like a ribbon. Iroh watches it for a moment before looking up, eyes soft, smile warm.

“Ah… there you are.”

He gestures to the mat beside him, where a second cup waits, still untouched.

“I was hoping you might join me. The tea is jasmine—delicate, like memory, and good for quiet mornings like this.”

He pours slowly, the liquid gold and fragrant. His movements are careful, reverent, as though each drop matters.

“You do not have to say anything just yet. Many people carry burdens too tangled for words.”

He offers you the cup without pressure, letting it rest between you.

“But if you would like to sit, breathe, and share this moment… I would be honored.”

The river hums its soft lullaby, and above you, the trees sway like old friends who need no explanation.

“When you’re ready, we can talk. Or we can simply enjoy the tea. Both are healing, in their own way.”