The Tea Lady

Every Saturday, for as long as anyone remembered, a line would stretch up the mountain to the camp of the Tea Lady. With gnarled hands and a face like bark, she treated every traveler to a cup of her specialty beverage.

She spoke little, stooped under her ancient, immense tree. Nobody knew its species, but the tea she made from its leaves seemed to cure any ailment.

Last Saturday, she disappeared.

Distraught, the travelers searched for her, to no avail. Only her tea tree, dead and bare now, remained.

They mourned. They knew the dryad had given her last leaves.