Finally, the drop in temperature becomes unmistakably clear.

Stepping out in the morning, a chilly breeze greets us. A friend remarks, 'Winter has arrived at last.' Silently, I add in my heart, 'It's tea brewing season.'

Lin Qingxuan wrote in 'Boiling Snow' a legend that in the Arctic, words freeze into ice upon speaking due to the extreme cold, unheard by others, so one must return home to slowly roast and listen. The tale is breathtakingly beautiful.

For tea lovers, brewing tea is a cherished ritual as autumn turns to winter.

As boiling water bubbles and tea leaves swirl, whispers rise from the pot—winter musings steeped over time, simmering into the promise of spring.

Indeed, tea transcends status or wealth; it is a universal solace in leisure.

Since the Wei and Jin dynasties, amid turmoil, scholars turned to idle talk, often accompanied by wine, like the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove.

Later, as tea replaced wine for its sobering clarity, tea drinkers flourished.

Thus, tea can be shared or savored alone, its warmth lingering in memory.

What matters is not the tea's quality but the act itself—unpretentious and free of rigid rules.

Gu Long once said, 'As long as tea is hot, it won’t taste too bad.' His expectation is simple: warmth to thaw a cold heart.

Heat carries comfort, softening even the hardest barriers. Sometimes, a fleeting warmth can sweeten an entire winter night’s dreams.

I cherish evenings in late autumn with a cup of hot tea. Its origin fades beside the warmth it brings—where there’s heat, there’s flavor, memory, and story.

No winter night is harder to endure than one without hot tea!