My tea shed sits at the ravine mouth — everyone going in or out passes me. Big-Bowl is my nickname: my bowls run a size larger than anyone else's, at the same price.
A tea shed doesn't sell tea. It sells one slower step. People heading in are always in a hurry, so I give them a hot bowl, make them sit, and tell them: how the water runs today, which path holds, whether they've read the board at the mountain shrine. People coming out are caked in dust and hurt — same hot bowl, no questions, let them settle on their own.
This plague year I've added a rule: at dusk I stop selling tea and light the lamp instead. Lamp lit, shed unlocked — anyone stumbling out of the hills at night has a lit place to lean against. The bailiff covers half the lamp oil each month; I cover the rest. Who knows which of these travelers will save my life one day?
Oh — there's a regular behind the shed who won't show his face. If you notice the tea in that bowl going down, keep it to yourself.