Tea Time on Ken’s Patio

The patio has that quiet, in-between feeling fall does so well—bright enough to sit outside, cool enough that the warmth has to come from somewhere else. A cup of tea does the work patiently, steeping while the table settles into its small arrangement: saucers lined up, spoons resting where they were last set down, and a plate of cookies waiting like they’ve already heard the conversation.

There’s something comforting about how simple tea can be. It doesn’t ask for much. It just fills the space with a gentle kind of attention—the clink of ceramic, the thin curl of steam, the pause you take before the first sip.

On Ken’s patio, that pause feels larger. The day slows to match it. A few leaves have wandered onto the table, as if the season wants a seat too. The cookies look homemade, pressed with tidy lines, and the tea has gone amber in the cup, catching the light like it’s holding onto the last of the afternoon.

Moments like this don’t announce themselves as memories while they’re happening. They just sit there, ordinary and steady, until later—when you’re back inside and the air has turned colder—and you realize how much you needed the quiet.