Have you ever tried looking into a cup of tea and not seeing your own face?
You probably think I'm talking nonsense. Tea is tea, a cup is a cup, it's just a reflection. How could it not be there?
I used to think the same way.
Until that afternoon, on the second floor of the Old Street teahouse, when I held my phone screen over a cup of gaiwan tea—
My name's Lin Bei. Third-year college student. Before summer break, my dad told me, "You're twenty now. Time to support yourself." Which was his way of saying, fend for yourself.
So began my broke-ass life.
Couldn't find an internship over the summer. Family cut off my allowance. I scrolled through job apps for three days straight — everything demanded experience or a degree I didn't have. In the end, a senior from school hooked me up.
"There's a teahouse over on Old Street. Hiring for the night shift. Daily pay. Dinner included."
"Night shift? A teahouse runs a night shift?"
"That one stays open till 2 a.m."
"That's insane. Who drinks tea in the middle of the night?"
The senior laughed on the other end of the line. "Go check it out. Weird place, weird people. But interesting."
I didn't pay attention to the word "weird." I only heard daily pay and dinner included.
That was enough.
Old Street lay on the west side of the city. They called it a street, but it was really just a narrow alley squeezed between patches of old residential blocks. Both sides lined with these seventies- and eighties-era buildings, paint peeling off the walls, electrical wires hanging overhead like spiderwebs.
It was fine during the day — a few breakfast stalls and sundries shops. But at night, only two or three streetlamps stayed lit. Their yellow glow scattered broken shadows all over the ground.
The teahouse sat at the very end of the alley. A three-story wooden building, old-style, with a plaque above the door that read "Xianlai Teahouse." Half the lacquer had peeled off.
The first time I went, it was 6:30 in the evening. The sky hadn't gone fully dark yet, but the lights inside were already on — old-school incandescent bulbs, their yellow light seeping through the carved wooden windows. It looked like a color from an old photograph.
The owner's surname was Gu. Fifties, tall and lean, wearing a gray cotton tunic, the kind with the knot buttons. He spoke slowly, like he had to chew every word before spitting it out.
"You're Xiao Lin?"
"Yeah, Boss Gu."
"Eaten yet?"
"Not yet."
"Go to the back kitchen. Have a bowl of noodles. Guests start arriving at seven."
No bullshit. No training. He didn't even mention my pay again. I wanted to ask, but he'd already turned away. His back radiated a distinct "don't bother me" energy, so I shut up.
The back kitchen had an auntie — Auntie Zhou. Round face. Loud enough to tear the roof off. She made me a bowl of shredded pork noodles with pickled vegetables. Portion was terrifying. Took me two bowls to finish.
"Eat more," Auntie Zhou said. "You'll be busy later."
I didn't get it. A teahouse — how busy could it get?
Seven o'clock sharp. I put on my apron and took my spot on the second floor. The teahouse had three floors. Ground floor was open seating — a few square tables with long benches, all occupied by neighborhood regulars playing chess, cards, shooting the breeze.
The second floor had booths, slightly nicer, partitioned with bamboo blinds. The third floor — I'd never been up there. Boss Gu said it was tea storage. Off limits.
7:10. The first customer arrived.
A middle-aged man in a dark jacket, baseball cap pulled low. He didn't say anything when he came in. Went straight up to the second floor and sat at the furthest table by the window.
I brought the tea menu over.
"What would you like, sir?"
"Gaiwan." His voice was muffled, like he was speaking through something.
"What kind of tea? We have Longjing, Biluochun, Tieguanyin—"
"Whatever."
I froze. Customers who said "whatever" weren't unheard of, but most of them would at least add, "You pick." This guy just tossed out the word and clammed up.
I brewed him a cup of Tieguanyin and set it on his table. He nodded. The brim of his cap revealed half a face — skin unnaturally pale, like someone who hadn't seen sunlight in a very long time.
I didn't think much of it. Turned around and went to serve the other guests.
Before long, the place started filling up. Ground floor packed. Five or six tables on the second floor too. Ordinary faces — people chatting, scrolling their phones. An old man brought a radio playing Chinese opera, the high-pitched wailing blending with the noise of the teahouse. Not unpleasant, actually.
The first thing that really threw me off was the customer in the baseball cap.
I didn't see him leave. Sometime after nine, when I was doing rounds with a teapot, I noticed the window seat was empty. A cup of gaiwan tea sat on the table, lid tilted against the rim, the tea still full. Not a single tea leaf missing.
I reached for it.
The moment my fingers touched the cup, I yanked my hand back.
The cup was scalding. Like it had just been pulled out of boiling water.
But that tea was cold. I knew it was cold.
I leaned in and sniffed. No steam rising from it. I held my fingertips half an inch above the tea surface — felt no warmth at all. But that thin porcelain wall was hot enough to sear a blister into my palm.
Weird, but I didn't dwell on it. Maybe it was some kind of super-insulating ceramic? Or maybe I'd touched something hot earlier and my senses were playing tricks?
I tried again.
This time I used the back of my finger. Brushed it against the cup.
"Sss—" I sucked in a breath.
It really was that damn hot.
But the tea itself was cold. I hesitated, then dipped the tip of my finger into the liquid.
Lukewarm. Like tea that had been sitting out for hours.
The cup body and the tea were two different temperatures. Night and day.
I was standing there confused when a voice came from behind me.
"Don't touch."
Boss Gu.
I had no idea when he came upstairs or how long he'd been standing behind me. There I was, holding a serving tray, half-crouched next to the empty seat, frozen like a bug under glass.
"When a guest leaves, you don't clear the cup right away," Boss Gu said. His voice was quiet, but every word was crisp. "You wait until the tea cools."
"But boss, the tea's already cold."
"The tea is. What about the cup?"
I opened my mouth and then closed it.
The cup was scalding. Cold tea. Scalding cup.
"While the cup is still hot," Boss Gu said slowly, "don't touch it. Leave it be."
He looked at me. A warning look.
"How long do I leave it?"
"Until it cools on its own."
He left. I stood up, glanced at the gaiwan, then at the wall clock. 9:23.
I went back to work.
Past ten. I'd finished my rounds. Returned to that table.
The cup was still there. Tea still full.
I tested the cup with my finger.
Still hot.
Almost a full hour, and the cup was still hot.
That made no sense.
No ceramic, no insulation technology in the world could stay scalding for forty minutes in an air-conditioned room. Especially since there was no steam coming off that tea at all. It looked like a perfectly ordinary cup of cold tea.
But the cup itself was burning hot.
I thought of something. Pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight, aimed it at the tea surface.
The tea was amber-colored. Light passed through it, casting a small circle on the bottom of the cup. Looked normal. I switched off the flashlight and opened the camera app. Held the phone above the cup, screen facing down.
I wanted to take a photo. Post about this weird thing on my feed.
Normally, the screen would reflect the tea, and the tea surface would reflect my face — or at least the outline of the phone. But when I looked at the screen, all I saw was the cup. An empty cup.
The tea had vanished. On my phone screen, that cup held nothing. I could see the inner wall, the white glaze at the bottom, the tiny chip on the rim.
But the tea was gone.
I shifted angles, held the phone higher, looked again. Same thing. On the screen, just the cup. An empty, hollow cup, like it had never held a single drop of liquid.
Then I did something even stupider.
I flipped the phone over. Opened the front camera.
I pointed it at the tea and took a photo.
The moment I pressed the shutter, everything on the screen looked fine. The tea. The leaves. The cup walls. Even the blurred bamboo blinds in the background. All normal.
Photo taken.
I opened the gallery.
In that photo, the cup held a blurry, grayish-white mass. Like a liquid that had been censored out. Like the image had undergone some indescribable pixel corruption at that exact spot.
And in the center of that grayish-white blur — a fingerprint.
As if someone had dipped a finger in ash and pressed it lightly onto the surface of the tea.
I stared at that fingerprint for three seconds.
It wasn't mine.
Because while I was looking down at my phone, I noticed the tip of my right index finger was resting against the rim of the cup.
I had no idea when it got there.
I couldn't even feel the contact between my fingertip and the porcelain.
In that moment, every hair on my back stood up. Some part of me that had been dormant for millions of years suddenly woke up and screamed: Run.
But I didn't run.
I lifted my finger off the rim. Stuffed my phone into my pocket. Turned around. Went to the back kitchen, grabbed a tray of pastries, and delivered it downstairs.
Just walked away like nothing happened.
10:45. I'd finished delivering the pastries. The tea was still there.
The cup was still hot.
I stood at the next table and stared at it for a moment. Then I did something even dumber — I walked closer and peered at the tea surface.
I didn't dare get too close, but I was near enough to see one thing clearly: the surface of the tea had no reflection.
I could see the white glaze at the bottom. I could see the tea leaves settled there through the amber liquid. But on the surface, there was no reflection of the ceiling light. No reflection of the bamboo blinds. No reflection of my own face leaning over it.
That cup of tea was like a mirror that had forgotten how to reflect.
I backed away.
This time I didn't hesitate.
I didn't know what that tea was. Didn't know if the man in the baseball cap was gone or not. I only knew one thing: stay out of it.
Just past eleven, Boss Gu called me over to the stairwell. Lowered his voice. "Go to the third floor. Left shelf, third row. Bring me a jar of aged white tea."
I asked what it looked like.
"White jar. No label."
I went up to the third floor.
No lights on. A pull-chain switch hung at the top of the stairs. I gave it a tug. A tiny bulb lit up — fifteen watts, maybe — dangling in the middle of the corridor like a glowing orange.
The whole floor was caught in half-light, half-shadow. Shelves everywhere, crammed with tea canisters, tea cakes, cardboard boxes, clay jars. The air was thick with stale tea scent, wood rot, dust.
Left shelf. Third row. White jar.
Found it.
But next to that white jar sat another cup of gaiwan tea.
The lid was on tight. The cup body was covered in fine cracks, spreading from rim to base like a spiderweb. I leaned closer. The tea inside was cold. But the cup — hot.
The jar was right beside it. When I reached over to grab it, my arm passed over the cup's rim. A sudden chill hit me.
I didn't think about it. Took the jar and left.
When I came back down, Boss Gu was waiting at the stairs. He took the white jar and looked at me.
"Up on the third floor. Did you see anything else?"
I paused. "Lots of things."
"Did you see a cup?"
I hesitated. Nodded.
Boss Gu didn't ask anything more. He turned and walked toward the table where the man in the baseball cap had sat, cradling that jar of aged white tea.
The cup of tea was still there on the table.
The cup was still hot.
Over an hour now.
Boss Gu sat down across from it. Opened the white jar. Scooped some tea leaves with a tea spoon into a fresh gaiwan. His movements were slow, deliberate. Each step like a ritual.
Boil the water. Warm the cup. Rinse the leaves. Brew.
Steam rose and blurred his face.
He set the freshly brewed cup neatly beside the scalding one.
Then he closed his eyes.
His lips moved.
I couldn't make out what he was saying. Not English. Not Mandarin. Something older — syllables short and muffled, like wind passing through dried reeds.
It lasted maybe half a minute.
He opened his eyes. Looked at the scalding cup of tea.
"Good."
Just that one word.
I didn't know what "good" meant, but I noticed Boss Gu's expression loosen slightly. The lines between his brows went shallower.
I looked at the cup again. That sense of dangerous, radiating heat was gone. I hesitated, then reached out and touched it.
Cold.
The cup was cold. The tea was cold.
Completely cold.
Boss Gu stood up, picked up the cup, and poured the tea into the slop basin beside the table. The tea leaves hit the bottom with a faint sound. He stacked the empty cup on a tray and handed it to me.
"Go wash this."
I took the cup. It sat in my palm, solid and heavy. Completely ordinary. Just a plain white porcelain gaiwan with a tiny chip on its rim.
Identical to the dozens of other cups in this teahouse.
I took it to the back kitchen and washed it with detergent and hot water. Set it upside down on the drying rack.
By the time my shift ended, it was almost 1 a.m. The last table was an old couple playing checkers in the corner of the ground floor. Three hours, four pots of Tieguanyin. I refilled their water eight times.
When they left, I automatically moved to clear the table.
Boss Gu stopped me.
"Leave it."
"Huh?"
"Clear it in the morning."
I looked at the two cups of tea. Both cold. Cups cold too. Everything normal.
But if Boss Gu said leave it, I left it.
When I stepped out of the teahouse, Old Street had gone completely silent. A few streetlamps still burned, but some had gone dark, leaving vast pools of blackness. I stood at the mouth of the alley, lit a cigarette, took two drags.
My phone buzzed.
A message from the senior.
"How was it? First day go okay?"
I typed a few words. Deleted them. Finally sent back: "Not bad."
"Run into anything weird?"
I looked at those words. Thought about it. Sent two characters back.
"Nope."
Locked the screen. Pocketed the phone. Finished the cigarette. Went home.
But the next night, I went back.
Not because of the tea. Because of the money. Daily pay. Two hundred kuai. Dinner included. Two hundred was enough to keep me alive for three days.
Besides, some part of my brain kept whispering: There had to be a rational explanation for yesterday. Tea with no reflection? Lighting problem. Cup stayed hot for an hour? Good insulation. Phone photo came out glitched? Camera's broken. Fingerprint? Dirt.
See? The human brain is an amazing thing. No matter how insane something is, if you want to convince yourself hard enough, you'll find a reason.
Day two. Seven o'clock.
I showed up at the teahouse right on time.
Boss Gu had the same expression as always. Neither warm nor cold. A nod counted as a greeting.
Auntie Zhou made me noodles again. Same shredded pork with pickled vegetables.
7:30. Guests arrived.
Not the baseball cap man from yesterday. Today it was a young couple. They sat in the middle of the second floor, ordered two Longjing and a plate of sunflower seeds.
The guy was glued to his phone. The girl flipped through a magazine. They barely talked.
Eight o'clock. Three middle-aged men came in, sat at the table closest to the door on the ground floor. Loud. Stocks and real estate.
8:30. An old lady arrived. Alone, leaning on a cane, wearing a faded floral-print blouse. Hair white as snow, neatly combed.
The moment she walked in, Auntie Zhou shouted from the back kitchen, "Grandma Wang's here!" The old lady smiled, revealing a set of dentures.
She went up to the second floor and sat at the same table the baseball cap man had used yesterday.
My heart skipped.
But I told myself: it's just a seat. Anyone can sit there.
Grandma Wang ordered a Pu'er. I brewed it and brought it over. She said "thank you" — her voice soft, but clear.
"Young man. New here?"
"Yeah. Started yesterday."
"Is Boss Gu treating you well?"
"He's fine."
Grandma Wang nodded. She lifted the cup, blew on it, took a sip. Her manner was refined — using the lid to gently sweep aside the floating leaves, letting only the edge of her lip touch the cup. A soft slurping sound.
I turned and left.
After nine, when I went up to check the floor, I noticed an extra cup of tea on Grandma Wang's table.
A gaiwan. Lid tilted against the rim. The tea was emerald green — freshly brewed Longjing.
I thought maybe the young couple had ordered it for her. But when I looked over, they were already gone. Two half-finished cups of Longjing left on their table. Cups cold, tea cold. Everything normal.
"Grandma Wang, whose tea is this?"
"Oh, a friend."
"A friend? Where?"
Grandma Wang didn't answer. She looked down at the gaiwan, a faint, unreadable smile at the corner of her mouth.
I noticed something off about that cup of tea.
The tea was hot. I could see steam slipping out from the gap between the lid and the cup — thin wisps, very faint. But the cup itself—
I didn't touch it. But just looking at it, I knew something was wrong with the cup.
It was too dark.
On the same table, Grandma Wang's Pu'er cup was white, reflecting the overhead light normally. But that gaiwan — its surface was like it had been coated in a layer of ash. Light hit it and didn't bounce back.
I stood there, two thoughts wrestling in my head. One said: None of your business. The other said: Grandma Wang is right here. She's a living person. She has a shadow, a voice, dentures. She should be fine.
I crouched down, pretending to tidy the tea-dreg bucket under the table. Really, I was looking at the seat next to her.
No one was there.
I touched the chair cushion with the back of my hand. The seat was warm. Like someone had just gotten up and left.
Someone whose body heat was still burning.
I stood up. My palms were sweating.
"Grandma Wang, this friend of yours..."
"Oh, him." She took another sip of Pu'er. "He comes every day."
"Every day?"
"Mm. Sits in this chair." She pointed with her chin at the empty seat across from her. "Doesn't talk much. Just drinks his tea. Leaves when he's done."
"When did he... arrive?"
"Right after you brought me the Pu'er."
I did the math. I'd served her the Pu'er around 8:40. Which meant this "friend" had been there since 8:40.
But when I came up to check the floor after nine, Grandma Wang was sitting alone.
A gap of nearly half an hour.
I decided to stop asking.
But I didn't walk away. I stood about six feet off, pretending to wipe the table next to hers, eyes fixed on that gaiwan.
The steam was still rising. But the moisture on the cup body — it wasn't evaporating outward from the tea. The moisture was flowing backward. From the outside of the cup, seeping inward.
Impossible.
But it was happening right in front of me.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again.
The moisture on the cup was gone. The whole cup looked dry and old now, like it had been sitting untouched in a cabinet for years.
9:40. Grandma Wang set down twenty yuan. Got up to leave.
She walked slowly. Cane knocking against the wooden floor — thud, thud, thud. One step at a time. I walked her to the stairs. She looked back at me.
"Young man, what's your name?"
"Lin Bei."
"Lin Bei." She repeated the syllables, nodded. "Good name. Bei means north — the direction that faces away from the sun."
I didn't understand what she meant.
She smiled and went down the stairs.
I returned to the table.
Two cups. One was Grandma Wang's Pu'er, cold. The other was the "friend's" gaiwan—
I reached out and touched the cup.
Cold.
The tea was cold too.
Just like last night. Once the "friend" was gone, the tea went cold.
I stood there. And suddenly I remembered what Boss Gu had said yesterday.
"That cup of tea — the guest hasn't left yet. When the guest leaves, the tea will cool."
The guest hadn't left.
When the guest was there, the cup was scalding. The tea was cold.
When the guest left, the cup went cold.
Which meant last night — when the cup stayed scalding for over an hour — the man in the baseball cap had been sitting there the whole time before he finally left.
But I couldn't see him.
That night after my shift, I didn't leave right away. I stood outside the teahouse for a while, smoked two cigarettes, watched the lights on Old Street go out one by one.
Boss Gu was locking up when he noticed me. "Still here?"
"Boss Gu."
"Yeah."
"That gaiwan tea — who's it really for?"
He looked at me. The yellow streetlamp cut across his face, and that gaunt profile looked like tree bark weathered by time. Every crease held something.
"What do you think?"
"I think it's for people we can't see."
Boss Gu was quiet for a few seconds.
"It's not that we can't see them," he said. "It's that they haven't arrived yet."
"Haven't arrived?"
"Before a person is even born, someone has already reserved a seat for them. Some seats stay empty for decades. Centuries. Waiting for that person to come. When they arrive, the tea is served. When they leave, the tea is cleared."
He locked the door, pocketed the key, and started walking away.
Two steps later, he stopped.
"Xiao Lin."
"Yeah."
"Yesterday on the third floor — besides the white jar, did you see anything else?"
I paused.
"A cup."
"What kind of cup?"
"Gaiwan. With cracks on the body."
"Did you touch it?"
"No."
"Good." He nodded. "If you'd touched that cup, this wouldn't be my problem anymore."
He said it and walked away.
I stood rooted to the spot, chills running down my spine.
Day three. I went back.
Not for any other reason. I just had to know — who was that tea for?
The young couple came again. The middle-aged men too. Grandma Wang didn't.
But a new guest arrived.
A woman in a red dress.
When she walked in, the entire teahouse went quiet for a beat.
She went straight up to the third floor.
I grabbed a tea menu and followed. By the time I caught up, she was already sitting in the furthest corner. No table there — just an old rattan armchair against the wall, next to a shelf covered in dust. The shelf was full of empty jars.
"Miss, we have seating on the first and second floors. The third floor is storage, it's not—"
"Gaiwan." She didn't look at me. Her voice was light, pleasant. Like wind chimes.
"Uh, let's go downstairs and order, I'll—"
"Gaiwan." She said it again. Slightly heavier this time.
I hesitated. Boss Gu had said the third floor was off limits. But this woman was already up here. Sitting there. Didn't look like she was going anywhere.
I went to find Boss Gu.
He was behind the counter on the ground floor, doing accounts. When he heard "red dress," his hand paused on the abacus.
"What does she want?"
"Gaiwan. Didn't say anything else."
Boss Gu put down the abacus and went upstairs.
I followed.
The woman in the red dress was still in the armchair. Hadn't moved. Boss Gu walked up and stopped in front of her.
"How many years?"
"Thirteen." The woman's voice.
"What does he want to drink?"
"Tieguanyin."
Boss Gu nodded. Turned around and went back downstairs. I stood there frozen, not sure whether to stay or follow. The woman suddenly turned her head and looked at me.
Her eyes were black. Unnaturally black. Like a thin black film had spread across the whites, wrapping her entire eyeball.
She held my gaze for two seconds.
Then she smiled.
I wanted to run. My legs wouldn't listen.
The woman looked away, toward the window.
Her voice drifted out of that darkness. "You have nothing on you. That's good."
Feeling came back to my legs.
I practically tumbled down the stairs.
Boss Gu was already brewing tea. Same white porcelain gaiwan. Tieguanyin. Water boiled to crab-eye bubbles. High pour, low fill. Steady, unhurried movements.
When he carried the cup upstairs, I grabbed his sleeve.
"Boss. Who is she?"
He didn't shake me off. Just looked down at my hand gripping his sleeve and said, slowly: "Someone who has been waiting a very long time."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for that person to come and drink this tea."
That night, the cup Boss Gu carried up never came back down.
Eleven. Midnight. One in the morning.
The red-dress woman never came downstairs.
When the teahouse closed, Boss Gu went up to the third floor alone. I waited on the ground floor. About ten minutes later, he came back down, carrying a tray.
On the tray: an empty cup.
The lid was on, neat and tidy.
"She's gone?" I asked.
Boss Gu didn't answer. He set the tray on the counter and lifted the lid to look inside.
I leaned over too.
No tea in the cup. At the bottom was a thin layer of grayish-white powder — like tea leaves that had been burned to ash.
In the middle of that grayish-white powder — a mark.
A tiny footprint. About the size of a pinky nail. Pressed into the ash. So sharp you'd think it had been stamped with a mold.
Like the footprint of a baby.
My hands started shaking.
Boss Gu put the lid back. Turned around. Put the cup into a cabinet behind the counter. The cabinet was locked. He took a bronze key off his belt, unlocked it, placed the cup inside, locked it again.
"Boss, that woman in the red dress—"
"Go home and sleep."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an authority you didn't argue with. I opened my mouth. Closed it.
When I stepped out of the teahouse, it was 1:15 in the morning. Old Street was as silent as a tomb.
I stood at the mouth of the alley. Lit a cigarette. My hands were still trembling.
My phone buzzed.
I thought it was the senior. Picked it up. An unknown number.
One line.
"Did you see the baby's footprint?"
I whipped my head up.
Old Street was empty.
The streetlamps were still on, but beyond their reach, there was nothing but impenetrable darkness. And the darkness wasn't still. It was moving — breathing in, breathing out. Like something enormous was slowly waking up.
I didn't reply to that message.
I turned my phone off.
The cigarette burned out. I didn't leave. I stood at the mouth of that alley a long time. Until my legs went numb again.
Then I turned around and went back into the teahouse.
The door wasn't locked.
Boss Gu was still behind the counter. Most of the lights were off. Just one small desk lamp glowing, illuminating that locked cabinet.
"Came back?" He didn't look up.
"Boss."
"Yeah."
"Who drank the tea in that cup?"
He was silent for a long time. So long I thought he wasn't going to answer.
Then he lifted his head and looked into my eyes.
"Some tea is for the living. Some tea is for the dead. And some tea—"
He paused.
"—is for those who haven't decided yet whether to come into this world."
I looked at his face — carved full of years — in the lamplight. And I suddenly understood. This teahouse wasn't a place for tea. It was an entrance. One side was our world. The other was a world I had no name for.
The two worlds, separated by the distance of a single cup of tea.
"Boss. I'll come back tomorrow."
He didn't say yes. Didn't say no.
He opened the locked cabinet. Took out a small porcelain bottle. Poured some clear liquid into a cup. Dipped his index finger and drew a circle on the countertop.
Inside the circle — nothing.
Just empty space.
He pointed at the empty circle.
"Look."
I looked down.
The circle held nothing. But the longer I stared, the more I realized — the "nothing" inside the circle and the "nothing" outside were different. The nothing inside was absolute. No air. No light. No time. No existence.
I stared into that circle and understood.
Those cups of gaiwan tea — they weren't supernatural phenomena.
It was a rule older than law. More certain than death.
Before you arrive, the tea is brewed for you. After you leave, the tea goes cold.
Some guests haven't been born yet.
But they've already been here.