The Last Teapot at Northbridge Hotel

The lift at Northbridge Hotel had gone to sleep before the guests. Its brass gate stood closed on the ground floor with a card that read TOMORROW MORNING.

Leon, the night porter, carried the last teapot upstairs. He took the service staircase, where each landing had a small window and a chair nobody remembered placing there.

On the third floor, he paused to straighten the tray cloth. On the fourth, rain moved faintly against the glass. The pot was still warm beneath his hand.

Room Fifty-One had left the tray outside. Leon exchanged it for the fresh one without knocking. Inside, pages turned once, then stopped.

He descended more slowly. The empty pot made no sound. By the lobby the clock had advanced only six minutes, and the hotel appeared exactly as quiet as when he had left it.