Every morning, Meera’s teacup told her the weather before the sky did. If the tea turned silver, rain would come. If it became blue, someone far away was missing her. Meera never found it strange, because in her village, shadows sometimes walked slower than people, and mango trees whispered secrets after sunset.
One Tuesday, her tea turned gold and began to hum. “A guest is coming,” it said softly. Meera looked outside and saw her dead grandfather standing near the gate, holding a basket of moonlight.
“You forgot your laughter here,” he told.
Meera smiled, though tears were in her eyes. She opened the basket, and tiny glowing laughs flew around the room like fireflies. They settled on the walls, the chairs, even her old cat.
By evening, the whole house was laughing, and Meera felt less alone than yesterday.
