Chapter Text
The dim light of the Twilight Tea House wrapped around Eva like a heavy cloak, thickening the air, quieting her senses. The room was still, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tick of the clock above the counter. The familiar scent of dried herbs, lavender, and mint intertwined with the warm, earthy undertone of brewing tea. It filled the space like a gentle sigh, wrapping around her. It should have been comforting, but tonight, the soothing aromas of the shop only deepened the emptiness within her. Her fingers rested on the rim of her favourite mug, a small comfort in her stormy sea of thoughts. The earthy scent of tea swirled around her, as familiar as the breath in her lungs, and yet tonight, its usual calming effect was lost to her.
Her mentor was dead.
The words reverberated in her mind like the distant tolling of a bell, each repetition heavier, duller, and more unbearable than the last. The quiet shop, once a refuge, now felt vast and echoing, every corner too sharp, too empty. She had replayed that moment with the officer in her head a hundred times, his soft voice like sandpaper against her fractured peace.
"It was a car accident. She didn't make it."
He had said it with care, his eyes downcast, his shoulders tense with the burden of delivering news he wished he didn't have to. Eva had stood frozen, her body numb, her thoughts scattered to the winds. In the days since, she had tried to piece herself together again, clinging to the routines that had once grounded her. But the routine failed. It couldn't fill the space that her mentor's absence had left.
She hadn't cried. Not yet.
Her silver-lavender eyes, dulled by grief, fixated on the swirling tea inside her mug, the soft glow of her Quirk muted beneath her usually vibrant gaze. The delicate shimmer that often danced in her irises seemed to be swallowed by the weight of loss. Her hands trembled slightly as she set the mug down, watching the tea ripple in soft, uneven waves - an echo of the chaos within her. Her life, too, had been unsettled, rippling out of control ever since the moment the news hit her, sharp and unforgiving, shattering her world like fragile glass.
Her mentor had been everything to her. Her saviour, her teacher, the only person who had seen her for who she truly was beneath the layers of pain, awkwardness, and the masks she wore. The one who had plucked her from the cruelty of her mother in England and given her a new life in this small, tucked-away corner of Japan. They had given her purpose, teaching her the delicate arts of healing through herbs and natural remedies, encouraging her to find strength in her craft, even as she kept her Quirk hidden away.
Her Quirk... she had hidden it for so long. The power to soothe and heal through song, to reach into others' hearts and offer comfort, all the while unsure of its worth. Her mother's biting words had ensured that. "For god's sake shut up, you sound like you're wailing," she'd screamed at her, the words still branding themselves on Eva's soul years later. So she had learnt from a young age to hide it, to supress it deep in the recesses of her soul. But her mentor had never judged. They had only offered silent understanding, a refuge in the storm.
The herbalist shop itself had become an extension of that refuge. Shelves lined with jars of carefully labelled herbs, the frequent sound of the kettle boiling, the soft rustle of her mentor's worn books. It had all come together to form a sanctuary, a sanctuary that now felt hollow, an empty echo of what it had once been.
She glanced at the corner of the room where her mentor's favourite chair stood, untouched and undisturbed. They had always sat there after long days, sipping tea in the quiet twilight, exchanging thoughts about the mysteries of herbs and the quiet magic that lived within them. Now, that chair was a spectre, a constant reminder of what had been lost.
She couldn't bear to look at it any more.
Her gaze drifted to the worn envelope on the counter, its presence heavy and inescapable. She had found it earlier, nestled in with the documents from the lawyer, an unexpected companion to the will. The sight of it had unsettled her, and so she had left it unopened, letting it sit on the counter as though keeping it sealed might somehow delay the finality of her mentor's departure.
But the silence around her pressed in now, and Eva knew there was no delaying it any longer. With shaking fingers, she reached for the letter and unfolded it carefully, her breath catching as the familiar looping handwriting came into view.
"My dearest Eva, If you re reading this, then I am no longer by your side. Please forgive me for leaving you with this burden, but I want you to know that I am at peace. And I hope you find your own peace too."
The words blurred before her eyes as the dam holding back her grief began to crack. Her hand tightened around the paper, and she forced herself to keep reading, even as her heart ached with every word.
"I've watched you grow into a remarkable young woman, so much stronger than you realize, my little angel. When I first met you, you were carrying so much pain more than any child should bear. I saw it in your eyes, the shadows, the bruises, the walls you built to protect yourself from the world."
Eva swallowed hard, her throat tight as tears began to spill down her cheeks. Her mentor had seen her struggles, her hidden battles, the scars her mother had left not just on her body, but on her soul.
"Bringing you here was the best decision I ever made, and slowly, quietly, you've helped build something beautiful here. You've learned to care for others, to bring solace and healing. And though you may not believe it yet, you've begun to heal yourself too."
Her breath hitched as she wiped at her tears, determined to finish the letter despite the flood of emotions threatening to drown her.
"There is something I never told you. I knew about your Quirk from the first moment I heard you humming in the empty classroom when you thought no one was listening, all those years ago. I never mentioned it because I believed it was your right to reveal it if or when you were ready."
The paper crinkled under her grip as the words cut deeper than she expected. Her mentor had known. All those years of hiding, and they had known the whole time.
"I know your mother's words wounded you. But, Eva, they were lies. Your voice is beautiful. Not just because of its power, but because it is truly beautiful and it is yours. Whether you choose to share it with the world or keep it for yourself, know that your voice is not something to be ashamed of. It is something to cherish."
Her heart felt like it was being wrung dry, every drop of sorrow, guilt, and self-doubt squeezed out with each line. The quiet solace her mentor had always offered now wrapped around her through their words, but it wasn't enough to fill the emptiness they had left behind.
"I leave you our little herbalist shop because I know you'll continue to use it to bring comfort to those who need it. But I also leave it to you because I hope that one day you'll feel able to use it to share your gift, to let your song be heard. You've spent so long hiding, but I believe the world needs your song. Let it heal, let it comfort, let it be the balm that I know it can be."
The letter trembled in her hands as she lowered it to the table. The grief she had held back for so long finally broke free, silent sobs shaking her frame. She buried her face in her arms, her loss flowing out in waves, unstoppable and raw. The weight of her mentor's death, their unwavering belief in her, their unconditional love - it all crashed over her, suffocating in its intensity.
For what felt like hours, Eva remained there, the only sounds in the tea house her slowly quietening sobs and the soft ticking of the clock. When the tears finally stopped, Eva sat back, her head resting against the wall. She wiped at her eyes, her hands trembling as she reached for the letter again. The final line stared up at her, simple, yet so full of love that it made her heart ache all over again.
"I m so proud of you, my little angel. Don't ever forget that."
Eva pressed the letter to her chest, her tears silent now as the storm of her grief began to ebb. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to go on without her mentor, without the one person who had always seen her, truly seen her. But as she sat in the dim light of the tea house, she felt a flicker of something deep inside her, a quiet resolve that had always been there, nurtured by her mentor's belief in her.
And as she whispered the final lines of her mentor's letter to herself, she felt the first stirrings of hope in the darkness.
She would honour her mentors memory. She would keep their little shop alive, and perhaps - just perhaps - she would find her own voice in the process.