The leaves were whispering. Not rustling or blowing in the breeze. Whispering.

Jo could hear them murmuring through the herb jars, rustling around the tea blends, and sliding across the floor with the hiss of freshly spilled secrets.

At Harmony Café, the aftermath of the Silent Steep activation left more than silence, it left questions, and the leaves apparently had the answers.

“They’re speaking Ancient Infusian,” Mira muttered, crouching near a jar of dried peppermint. “A dead language. Literally. It only shows up when the boundary between memory and magic gets paper thin.”

Jo tilted her head, listening. The words were just beyond meaning. Like forgotten dreams or poorly translated furniture instructions. “You think they’re trying to tell us something?”

“They’re trying to remember something,” Mira replied. “Which means something in here forgot something.”

At that moment, the pantry door creaked open on its own.

A breeze swept through the café, carrying tea leaves in a spiral. They danced midair and formed words against the windowpane.

She was meant to forget. You weren’t.

Matteo, looking pale, stepped into the café with an envelope in his hands. “This was shoved under the back door.”

Jo opened it.

Inside was a faded black and white photograph. It was of a young Jo, maybe six, standing next to a strange woman holding a teacup. The woman looked familiar in that eerie, too close to remember way.

“She looks like you,” Clorvex whispered.

Mira reached for the photo but hissed the moment she touched it. “It’s woven with a binding charm.”

The espresso machine sputtered and spat a single drop of coffee across the counter, where it steamed into the shape of an eye.

Jo stared at the photo again.

“She’s the one from my dreams. The tea dreams.”

Outside, the wind stirred the branches and the leaves hissed, “Polly knows.”

Mira stood, brushing tea dust from her sleeves. “It’s time we paid our inconsistent messenger ghost a visit.”