The village of Elderwood was not the kind of place you’d find on a map. Nestled in a quiet valley surrounded by rolling hills, it was a place where time seemed to pass differently, slower, as if the universe itself wished to preserve its simple rhythms.
There were no grand adventures in Elderwood, no heroes or villains, no sorcery or spectacle. But there was magic. Quiet, unassuming, and woven into the fabric of daily life.
Zemo found this enchanting place just when he needed to. It was spring, everything was green and growing. New beginnings in the world. He was only going to stay at the village inn for a few weeks, to catch his breath, to restore his sprits. But the village captivated him, and he ended up staying for much longer.
He now owned the tea shop at the centre of the village square. It was a modest little place, with creaking wooden floors and mismatched chairs, where the scent of dried herbs lingered in the air like a gentle embrace. On a whim, he called it The Cup of Ordinary Magic.
Zemo’s customers always chuckled at the name. “Tea isn’t magic,” old Mr. Lee would say as he shuffled to his favourite seat by the window. “It’s just leaves and water!”
Zemo would only tilt his head, smile and serve him his usual - peppermint tea with a dash of honey. But Zemo knew better. He knew about tea.
The magic wasn’t in the tea itself, though the blends he crafted were exceptional. It was in the moments that came with it: the way a steaming cup could warm cold hands and soften harsh words, or how the smallest pleasures, like a crumbly biscuit, or the sound of rain against the window, could fill a person’s heart to the brim.
Zemo believed the ordinary held more magic than people realised.
On a balmy summer morning, a man Zemo didn’t recognise at first wandered into the shop. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with an old leather satchel slung over one shoulder and a weariness about him that seemed to weigh him down. His hood was up, sunglasses on, and he was wearing a beaten up leather jacket and dark leather gloves.
Leather gloves. In this weather. Zemo’s mind noticed, but didn’t tell him.
As the man approached the counter, he pushed his hood back, took off his shades. His hair was flecked with silver, though he didn’t seem that old, and his clear blue eyes lingered on the shelves of tea jars as though he’d forgotten how to choose.
Zemo studied his ruggedly handsome face, and recognition dawned.
“James?” Zemo asked, incredulously.
Bucky looked over, startled. “Zemo? Is that you? I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you.”
“Me, either,” said Zemo, huskily.
Bucky looked around. “You bought a tea shop, huh?” Bucky spotted the jar of cherry blossom tea on the top shelf, and couldn’t stop a small smile forming on his face.
Zemo tilted his head, his warm brown eyes searching Bucky’s face. “Are you staying long, James?” he asked gently, his accent thick.
Bucky brought his attention back to the here and now. “Passing through,” he muttered.
“Well,” Zemo said with a warm smile, “you’ve come to the right place. What are you in the mood for?”
Bucky hesitated, then said, “Something soothing, I guess.”
Zemo nodded, his hands moving instinctively. He selected a blend of chamomile, lavender, and a touch of lemon balm. As the water boiled, he glanced back at Bucky. “Have you had a long journey, James?”
Bucky gave a short laugh. “You could say that.”
Zemo didn’t press him for details. That wasn’t his way. Instead, he set the cup in front of him, along with a plate of shortbread cookies shaped like little stars. “Here you are, James. The first cup is always on the house.”
Bucky blinked, as though he wasn’t used to such kindness. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice softened.
He sat at the counter and sipped his tea in silence. Zemo returned to his work, tidying shelves and arranging jars. Zemo could feel Bucky’s tension slowly ebbing away, like a knot unravelling. It was a feeling he knew well.
When Bucky finally spoke, it was so quiet that Zemo almost didn’t hear. “I bought a little shop like this, a while ago. Not tea, though. Books.”
Zemo paused, then turned to face him. “Really? A bookstore? What happened to it?”
Bucky stared into his cup. “The world happened. Got pulled back into other things, and I sold it.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out I was better at small things.” He shrugged, and looked up at Zemo. There was a little wrinkle in the middle of his forehead. “Or, they were better for me.”
Zemo leaned on the counter and nodded. “There’s nothing wrong with a simple life, James. Sometimes small things are the best things.”
Bucky looked at Zemo, and something in his expression shifted, like a cloud passing to reveal sunlight.
Over the next few days Bucky became a regular at the tea shop. He’d sit at the same table every morning, sipping tea and chatting with Zemo between customers. Slowly, his laughter returned, tentative at first, then fuller, richer. His sense of humour returned and he bantered pleasantly with Zemo. He even started helping Zemo with odd jobs, without being asked. He’d fix a squeaky chair, or organise the tea jars. Though he never said it outright, Zemo suspected he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
And Zemo didn’t mind. Zemo didn’t mind at all.
Summer turned into autumn, and as the leaves began to fall, Bucky stayed. He built a fire in the hearth each morning before Zemo arrived and took over the delivery of orders to the village’s elderly residents, earning their gratitude and affection. The tea shop, once just Zemo’s domain, began to feel fuller, cosier, and alive with the warmth of Bucky’s company.
One cloudy afternoon, after the last customer had left, Zemo was standing by the corner wall, his head tilted, a thoughtful look on his face. “You know, James?” he said.
“Yup,” asked Bucky, coming to stand next to him, a fragrant cup of tea in his hands.
Zemo splayed out his hand, indicating the corner area. “I think this would make an excellent reading nook.” He turned to gauge Bucky’s reaction.
Bucky gave a slow smile, and looked at Zemo. “You think?”
“I do,” said Zemo. “Are you any good at making bookshelves?”
“You bet I am,” said Bucky.
*
One snowy evening, they sat together by the fire, in two cosy armchairs in front of the new bookshelves that Bucky had built by hand and filled with his own selection of diverse titles. Zemo handed Bucky a steaming cup of tea. “What’s this?” Bucky asked, smiling.
“Something new,” Zemo said. “I made it for you, James.”
He took a sip and closed his eyes, letting the flavours bloom on his tongue: earthy rooibos, a hint of cinnamon, and a whisper of something he couldn’t place. “It’s perfect,” he said.
Zemo smiled. “I call it Second Chances.”
Bucky grinned over at him. “You really do believe in magic, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Zemo said softly, reaching out to touch Bucky on the arm. “It’s in the small pleasures, the simple life, and the people we love. That’s where the real magic is.”
And for the first time in years, Bucky believed it too.
***