Saturday morning came quick.
Wren slowly sat up in her bed, as it creaked a groan of protest beneath her.
She rubbed her eyes trying to wash away exhaustion that still lingered.
She slowly dragged her feet toward the shared bathroom at the end of the hall. At this hour it stood empty, most people still asleep on a day meant for rest.
In a daze, she turned on the faucet and watched the water flow into the sink. For a moment she simply stared at it before cupping her hands and splashing her face, droplets falling into her hair. The icy shock sent a shiver crawling down her spine and washed away some of the exhaustion clouding her vision.
Water dripped from her chin as she looked up at the mirror.
The woman staring back at her was utterly, painfully, average.
Not pretty enough to draw attention. Not ugly enough to be remembered.
Just... ordinary.
Her pale skin looked unhealthy beneath the harsh bathroom lights, it was drained of color by years spent indoors beneath cold office lighting, and illness lingering deep within. Deep blackish brown eyes stared back at her, framed by dark circles that seemed a permanent fixture these days. They weren't remarkable eyes. Most people would struggle to remember them minutes after looking away.
Her hair was a dull shade bordering between black and brown, it coiled in soft waves and fell loosely past her shoulders, stopping just before the middle of her back. It wasn't particularly silky or beautiful. It was simply hair, if anything it was rougher than average due to the cheap scented shampoo she used.
She wasn't tall. She wasn't short. She was thin, but it wasn't a beautiful thin, it was a sickly underfed thin due to the lack of nutritious meals, and skipping dinner one too many times.
There wasn't a single feature she could point to and call memorable.
If she disappeared tomorrow, the person in the neighboring apartment would probably struggle to describe her.
The thought should have hurt, but instead, it only felt familiar.
Wren placed both hands on the sink and stared at her reflection for a long moment.
She was twenty-two years old.
One year and four months left to live, if that.
She would die before she reached twenty-three.
And somehow the thought no longer drew panic.
She looked up at the stranger in the mirror; she couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever really existed at all, and maybe she could finally get the rest that alluded her all along.
Her thoughts drifted to many things as she slowly got ready.
She put on the only comfortable non-work clothing she had, a deep crimson red wool sweater, and a black pair of tight-fitting jeans. She paired the outfit with her worn out office shoes and office bag that carried most of the things she might need for the day.
Wren walked out the entrance of her apartment building and was immediately attacked by biting chilly wind that assaulted her from all sides.
She carried herself down the street with her head down.
She had one destination on her mind. The longer she thought about it the quicker her pace began.
As Wren drew closer to her destination, she caught the scent first.
The faint smell of jasmine and roasted oolong ran in the wind, carried by the breeze like an old memory. The familiar aroma quickened her pace, as she took longer strides towards her destination.
A simple wooden sign hung above the entrance, weathered by time and marked with a single word:
Chashitsu.
The tea-house sat quietly at the end of a narrow street, resting between two modern apartment buildings that towered over it on either side. It looked strangely out of place, like a fragment of the past the city had somehow forgotten to erase.
Her grandfather often claimed it was the only place in the city that felt real, that felt gentle and alive.
Wren slowed as she approached. For a moment, she simply stood there.
The building was a humble small building, made up of dark wood exterior worn smooth by decades of the elements. The wood bore every imperfection and mark proudly, a quiet reminder of years that had gone by.
A crimson red Noren curtain hung above the entrance, the edges frayed from use, it swayed gently in the morning breeze, revealing fleeting glimpses of a warm interior inside.
She was letting herself take in the sight, because her grandfather had loved this place and so did she.
This place mattered.
Her grandfather used to bring her here when she was young. Not often, only when there was a little extra money to spare. He would spend half an hour studying the menu before ordering the same tea every visit. Whenever Wren asked if it was his favorite tea, he always gave the same answer while shaking his head.
"The best tea, Wren, is any cup I get to share with the people I love most."
"I've forgotten a thousand cups of tea in my life, but I've never forgotten who I shared them with and that's what matters the most Wren."
Back then, Wren hadn't really understood what he meant.
She'd thought a tea-house was just a place that sold tea. It wasn't until years later that she realized people didn't come for the tea alone.
They came for the laughter, the stories, the company, and the feeling of belonging somewhere.
That's when she'd started dreaming about opening a tea-house of her own one day. A small, cozy place filled with warm light, friendly laughter, and the scent of fresh tea leaves.
A place where people could sit, forget their troubles for a while, and leave feeling a little happier than when they arrived.
A place where people could experience the same warmth she'd felt sitting across from her grandfather all those years ago.
Somewhere along the way, though, she'd forgotten about that dream.
Life had a way of doing that. Overtime became normal. Bills piled up. Hospital visits became routine. The dream slowly shrank into something childish and far-fetched, the sort of thing people grew out of once reality started demanding their attention. Eventually, it became just another thing she'd wanted once.
Wren smiled softly at the memory before stepping forward and lifting the curtain. For a brief moment, it felt less like entering a tea-house and more like coming home.
The warmth wrapped around her like a memory, and the scent of tea overwhelmed her senses. The air smelled of roasted oolong, jasmine, and something floral Wren could never name but could always recognize.
The exterior blended into the inside seamlessly, and dark wood flooring and tatami mats laid in the entrance interior. Shoji screens filtered the morning light into pale gold, turning the room warm and hazy. Low tables made of dark wood lined the outer walls, and a wooden counter with stools running the length were centered in the middle of the room.
Wren quickly found herself a table and sat down.
The waitress approached a moment later, menu in hand and a polite smile already in place.
The moment her eyes settled on Wren, the smile faltered.
It lasted only a second, but Wren caught it.
The brief glance at her hollow cheeks, pale skin, and exhausted eyes.
Her eyes had a flicker of discomfort, almost disgust, before professionalism returned.
Wren lowered her gaze to the menu and pretended not to notice. She was getting used to those looks. The sort people gave sick animals, abandoned buildings, and things that reminded them how fragile life could be.
The funny part was that nobody had ever looked at Wren when she was healthy. No one had cared when she stayed late or looked like she needed help. Nobody cared when she was struggling, yet the moment she started actually falling part, suddenly everyone looked. Not with kindness, not with concern, just plain discomfort. Like she had become an unpleasant reminder of something they'd rather ignore.
Wrens eyes went back to the menu, as she quietly ordered her grandfathers choice of tea with a small bitter smile. Jasmine with a hint of roasted barley. The waitress quickly brought her a steaming pot filled with red semi-transparent liquid, then disappeared back behind the counter. She sat slowly at a wooden table in the back, letting the tatami under her cushion her weight.
Around her, quiet conversations drifted through the tea-house, blending with the occasional clink of ceramic against wood. She wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic pot and slowly poured herself a cup. The amber liquid flowed in a thin stream, steam curling lazily into the air.
She closed her eyes as she took a long slow sip, savoring the warm liquid as it reached her tongue.
For the first time in a very long time nothing was needed of her.
No reports. No deadlines. No reminders that her time is running out.
For the first time in weeks something inside her loosened.
She thought of old memories of her visiting here with her grandfather while she was still a kid.
She used to insist on pouring tea for herself, whenever she spilled, which was often, she would get flustered and her grandfather would often comfort her.
"It's okay Wren, good tea forgives,"
"Pour it slowly, there's no need to rush."
"A little spilled tea is just the universe asking for its share."
The memory brought the faintest smile to her lips.
Another surfaced not long after.
She was just around the age of thirteen.
Her grandfather and three of his friends had gathered around a small table in the very same tea-house, playing cards while arguing over rules none of them seemed to remember correctly.
Wren remembered sitting quietly with her tea while watching and listening to them bicker back and forth.
At the end of the game, her grandfather had lost spectacularly.
One of his friends had laughed so hard he nearly knocked over the tea pot.
"You cheated," her grandfather had declared.
"You watched me play every card."
"Exactly," he'd replied. "I watched you cheat."
The entire table had burst into laughter. Even now she could picture his grin as he reached for his cup and shook his head.
Wren quietly laughed to herself.
Just once.
She took another slow sip of tea, letting the familiar flavor linger on her tongue a little longer than necessary.
She wished her grandfather was here.
She wished she wasn't alone.
She wished she wasn't dying.
She wished she had been given just a little more time.
Not for anything grand.
Just enough to live.
Just enough to become someone she could be proud of.
Just enough to be happy.
Wren lowered her gaze to the tea in her hands.
She wished for something to change, a miracle, a second chance.
Anything at all.
The steam rising from her cup suddenly twisted strangely.
And somewhere far beyond her understanding;
The world listened.
[AUTHORS NOTE: Hello! For anyone who has actually stumbled upon this, thanks for reading this far! I will say, the start may be a tiny bit slow, but it will ramp up a lot after she reincarnates soon (In a true weak-human-turned-blood-thirsty-monster fashion). Any feedback is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!]