The little duck smiled before walking back across the wooden bridge. She understood that the warmest places are not remembered because of their walls or their tea, but because they quietly make every visitor feel as though they have always belonged there.
The little duck sipped her tea while lotus petals drifted across the lake. Dragonflies skimmed the water, and the morning breeze carried the quiet sound of bamboo leaves swaying along the shore.
As the sun climbed higher, the reflections of the teahouse shimmered beneath the water like a second little cottage resting upside down in another peaceful world.