Story: home is where tea is.

Shrinking items and folding rooms.

He remembers the first time the air felt weird in his living room.

After serving tea just for himself, his body made its natural course to the wooden armchair where he has settled countless times for the very same ritual: sipping ginger tea while watching the sky turn orange, purple, then dark, while turning pages of whatever book he was into at the time.

As he sipped his tea, the steam of the warm cup met his skin. Tea was more than tea; it was childhood memories, it was the hands of relatives offering warm cups of care, it was receiving the fruits of the soil heightened by the very component of the source of life.

And the cup of his choosing, had been the same one of the survivors from his childhood, back from he couldn’t hold it with a single hand.

Of course, he didn't hold his cup of tea as any of these agreements. For him, it was just a warm cup part of watching the sunset from his living room's window; little was known to him why he began doing this ritual.

As the sun was setting, for a brief second the air became dense, he could only recognize it as "something feeling weird" and the "tea tasting bitter". He dismissed the feeling and turned to the next page of his book.

Once the sky darkened, he left his tea by the little table next to his armchair and set to place his book away when he noticed his bookshelf wasn't there.

He stood in confusion.

It just wasn't there. His bookshelf wasn't there. The bookshelf that had carved tulips on the sides, done by a now distant lover.

He looked around the living room in distrust, as if the shelf had walked out on its own. He walked in circles, constantly looking at the wall where the shelf was expected to be.

When he looked down, the shelf was there, small. He kept getting his face closer to the ground because his eyes couldn't believe it. Confusion came through his expression. He noticed that the shelf was getting tiny, every second it kept getting smaller and smaller. The lines of the carved tulip seemed to be merging together. All he could do was observe in disbelief, book in hand.

He kept watching until he couldn't trace it with his eyes. Still in disbelief, he observed the same spot for a few seconds. Then stood up.

"The fuck," he uttered and shrugged off. "The fuck," he repeated, lower this time as if agreeing to his initial statement.

Still bewildered, he stood up and went to the bathroom to wash his face. The cold water woke up the muscles and nerves of his face. His vision renewed, and he decided to look again at the space where the shelf was — but before he left, in the corner of his eye, he noticed that the mirror in his bathroom was gone, as confusion turned into agony, he noticed that his towels were gone too.

So he walked back to the living room to look where the bookshelf should have been, standing in front of the empty space he noticed how little items around the living room, candles, a hung painting he did during a watercolor class, the plants in the corner - all were dwindling before his eyes, shrinking into nothingness.

He looked at the kitchen door and he felt the hollowness coming from there, it was empty. He didn’t know what to do about it, how to safekeep the pieces that made his home once they were gone. With little in his power, he stared the space in the kitchen from where he stood, because he thought that maybe whatever was unfolding won’t if he is looking at it.

Nevertheless, suddenly the space in the kitchen began collapsing, it looked like the ceiling was coming to the ground, and the walls decided to meet at the center; or at least this is how his human brain tried to comprehend what was going on. He kept staring but that didn't halt what was set in motion. He thought of the vases that were gifts from friends, the ceramic plates he had been fond of, and the herbs gifted by distant friends that were part of his evening ritual. But now, only the door frame remained, the kitchen was there no more.

He let out a scream, in confusion and desperation, he took a backpack and ran to his bedroom in an effort to hide other items he valued from his home, yes, even the tiny rocks that he found by the stream, a ring from his grandparents' wedding, exposed film rolls, a t-shirt gifted by a loved one, the notebook that was by the nightstand. Then he noticed the bed wasn't there. Some of his clothing either.

His hands and feet lost coordination when realizing there might not be enough time to save all of his possessions - the walls began collapsing into each other, and he frenzied to the living room. The room collapsed into itself slowly and steadily. Tears ran across his face in anger.

Once in the living room, he noticed that the bathroom had folded in on itself, just like the kitchen, leaving only a doorframe.

He looked at his armchair and placed it next to the backpack to somehow protect it. Many elements already had disappeared to his eyes but while everything was happening slowly, it wasn't slow enough for him to mourn each loss.

He took the book that he was reading that evening and put it in the backpack, he tried to put on the backpack, but it resisted, slipping off his shoulders as if they had grown suddenly wider. He paused, confused, before realizing it was the backpack shrinking in his hands, not his body growing; it was also lighter, the items inside must have been shrinking as well.

He placed the backpack down in defeat. Opened it and found that most of the things he had placed inside had disappeared, others were tiny and slowly fading away from his eyes. He wanted to scream in protest but nothing came out, only an awkward shaking of his feet.

He grabbed the cup where he had tea earlier in the evening and sat in front of the armchair, he was glad his cup was still there, everything else in the living room was disappearing slowly, only remained him, his armchair, and his empty cup.

He looked at his armchair and began caressing it. It had been made by his great-grandparent for his grandparent, then to his father, and now it was with him. He traced the worn marks left by lives before his. He felt rich being able to feel so much history and the emotions from it by just observing and touching it.

His eyes went to the remnant ginger pieces left in his cup, and a vague melancholy spread through his bones.

When he looked up to his armchair it seemed smaller, a moment passed and he was certain it was becoming smaller. The marks that he often would appreciate were no longer distinguishable. He stood up, cup in hand, his eyes didn't leave the tiny armchair until they could not see it anymore.

The grip of his hand on the cup tightened. He wanted to cry.

The air became denser.

He looked at his cup. Inspecting the patterns, he thought it would be nice if it had been filled up one more time. Instinctively he walked towards the kitchen; rather, towards where the kitchen had been. He stopped before taking a fourth step.

The air felt denser. His lungs requested a conscious effort to breathe.

When he looked up, the ceiling was upon him, getting closer. With his heart set on leaving his empty home behind, he placed the cup in the middle of the empty living room and was making his way to exit the house. His feet rushed.

When he reached the door something pulled deep from his chest, he turned around to take a last look at the cup; he noticed it hadn't shrunk, not at all, the room was becoming smaller, slowly, but the cup wasn't, he recognized.

He approached the cup, in relief, he felt an inmense weight leaving his heart, he sat in front of it, just observing the preciousness of it. His hands traced the ceramic marks. His awareness collapsed only to holding it.

A moment passed, and he couldn't sit anymore, the ceiling had come so close to the floor.

He lay down beside the cup, the last unshrinking piece, surrendering to the silence with it cradled close.

Thank you for reading! This is the first of many stories I intend to share here. If you’d like to read a bit more about the intention behind it, you could at my website.
Cheers and thanks again.