Mira had always felt a little watched.

Not in the usual “someone’s staring at you while you sip herbal chamomile” way, but in a “my ancestor might be haunting the tea in the basement” kind of way.

Today, curiosity won over caution. Descending the creaky wooden stairs behind the counter, Mira found a hidden door that was cleverly disguised as a tea shelf titled “Forgotten Infusions.”

She hesitated, then pushed.

Once inside dusty relics and faded portraits greeted her. In the middle of the room, a translucent figure hovered, wearing an old-fashioned brewing apron and a stern expression.

“I’m Beatrix,” the ghost announced. “Your great-great-grandtea, and you’re ruining the chamomile ritual.”

Mira blinked. “Wait, you’re…judging me? From beyond the veil?”

Folding ethereal arms, Beatrix nodded. “Your frothing technique needs work too, and no one calls a blend ‘basic’ without consequences.”

Over the next few days, Mira’s brewing routine became a chaotic dance of ghostly critique and magical mishaps.

Beatrix insisted on exact leaf counts, stirring in patterns only visible in moonlight, and insisted Mira memorize the Tea Leaves of the Ancients.

Meanwhile, the café’s customers noticed some unusual effects as well. Patrons reported visions of past lives, accidental time slips during sips, and one man briefly turned into a teapot. It all made Jo wonder if she should just ban tea altogether.

During a midnight ritual gone awry, Beatrix accidentally enchanted the espresso machine to sing opera when steamed milk was added.

Mira sighed. “Great. Now the machines are judging me too.”

Not one to mince words, Jo extended her mop to Mira. “Wanna trade? I’m tired of cleaning ghost spit.”

In the end, Mira learned that family, even spectral, came with its own blend of love, judgment, and steep expectations. And that sometimes, the best brew was the one made with a pinch of patience and a whole lot of whipped cream.