Leila leaned over the small ceramic cup, squinting at the swirling coffee grounds that clung to the bottom like dark, forgotten secrets. She had inherited her grandmother’s gift—or curse, depending on who you asked—a peculiar talent for reading coffee grounds. While others saw only stains and patterns, Leila glimpsed fragments of lives, emotions, and histories hidden in the rich, earthy shapes.

Her shop, nestled in an old quarter of Tehran, smelled of fresh coffee and aged wisdom. Patrons came for more than just caffeine—they came for answers, for glimpses into their futures. But Leila had always kept her own secret: she could see more than the future. She could see the past, too.

This afternoon, an elderly man entered, his wrinkled hands trembling as he set a small cup on the counter. His eyes were distant, as if he carried burdens that belonged to another era. Leila nodded and poured him his coffee, the steam rising in a soft arc before the thick brew settled into the bottom.

She handed the cup to him. “Your future, or your past?”

He gave her a tired smile. “Both, perhaps.”

Leila took the cup from his hands, her fingers brushing against his knuckles. The instant she turned it over, the ground inside shifted, revealing patterns she hadn’t seen before. These weren’t simple figures or vague shapes—these were vivid, detailed scenes.

She gasped, her breath catching in her throat.

The first image was a vast desert, golden sand stretching endlessly beneath a setting sun. A figure, cloaked in flowing robes, knelt by a spring, their face obscured by a veil. She recognized the scene at once: it was Rumi’s time. Her heart pounded in her chest as she peered closer, tracing the swirling figures that seemed to move in the grounds—dancing dervishes, a mystical gathering of men and women beneath a crescent moon.

She was stunned. This wasn’t a dream or a figment of her imagination. These were real moments from another lifetime.

The man watched her carefully, as though he knew what she was seeing. “Do you see it?” he asked quietly.

Leila’s voice faltered. “Rumi... This is...” She could barely form the words. "How is this possible?"

He smiled, and his eyes seemed to grow distant, as if he was looking far beyond her. “We have all lived many lives, child. I am not who you think I am.”

The grounds shifted again, and more images appeared. Rumi, his face young, his eyes full of wonder, speaking with a woman at the edge of a crowded city. The flicker of a candle in a small room filled with poets and mystics. A moment of deep sorrow—Rumi alone, staring at a distant horizon, longing for something beyond this world.

Leila’s heart raced. These were not random images. These were intimate, personal moments, lives once lived.

“How...” Leila’s voice cracked. “How is it that your past is here, in my cup?”

The man reached out, his hands steady despite his years. “I have carried my soul through time, from one life to the next. And now, at the end, I seek the one who can understand the journey.”

Leila stared at him, her mind spinning. Was he Rumi, reincarnated? Or was this merely a reflection of something she was meant to see, something beyond the veil of time?

“I have watched you,” the man continued, his voice low. “I have seen your own past lives in the grounds of your cup. Your connection to the poets, to the mystics. You were there, once.”

Leila's breath caught in her throat. Her mind reeled with the possibilities. Could it be? Could she, too, have lived before, in another time, another place?

For the first time in her life, Leila felt the weight of the past and the future press against her heart. The coffee grounds before her were not just a glimpse into a stranger’s soul—they were a bridge across time, a reminder that everything, even the smallest moments, was connected.

“I have nothing more to offer you, child,” the man said, his voice soft. “Except the knowledge that we are all threads in the same tapestry.”

With that, he stood, his movements slow but purposeful. Leila watched him go, the soft chime of the door marking his exit.

She was left alone, the cup still warm in her hands, the visions of another world swirling in her mind. Rumi, the poets, the mystics... all of them were now part of her story, as she had been part of theirs.

And for the first time, Leila realized that the coffee grounds were not just patterns—they were memories, echoing through the ages, waiting to be uncovered.