Nocturnal Tea Party Gentleman Skeleton
Choose Your Next Obsession
The kettle whistled at midnight. No one else heard it.
He has been waiting since 1847.
Not for company — for the right temperature.
The ghosts in the wallpaper flicker like bad reception.
They want a cup. He never offers.
The steam rises through his ribs, escapes through his collar.
It is the only warm thing in the room.
He stirs with a finger bone. Clink. Clink.
The sound echoes in a house that stopped existing decades ago.
You did not RSVP.
That is why he is smiling.