On the morning the book went missing, Eleanor noticed the teapot was warm even though she hadn’t touched it.
This was unusual for two reasons. First, Eleanor was meticulous about her routines. Second, the teapot had been sitting on the high shelf ever since the incident with the cracked spout and the kitchen floor that smelled of bergamot for weeks. She stood very still in her slippers, listening to the old house breathe. From the window seat, two cats watched her with identical expressions of mild disappointment.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Eleanor said. “I’m not late.”
Ink, the black cat, flicked his tail. Paper, white and long-haired, yawned and showed a pink, secretive mouth.
The book had been there the night before. Eleanor was certain. It was a thin volume bound in green cloth, found years ago at a charity shop where no one could remember shelving it. There was no title on the spine, no author inside—only dense handwriting and the occasional pressed leaf. She kept it on the small table by the window, always within reach of her teacup.
Now the table was bare.
Eleanor turned slowly, scanning the room. The teapot sat on the counter, lid slightly askew, steam ghosting upward. She approached it as one might approach a sleeping animal. Inside was tea—fresh, fragrant, exactly how she liked it.
“Did you do this?” she asked the cats.
Paper hopped down and padded to the table, sniffing the empty space where the book should have been. Ink jumped onto the counter and peered into the teapot, whiskers twitching. He sneezed.
That was when Eleanor noticed something at the bottom of her cup: a scrap of green cloth, soaked through, with a corner of handwriting bleeding into the porcelain.
Her heart thudded. She poured the tea out carefully into the sink. The leaves swirled, and with them came more fragments—paper, thread, and finally a single intact page.
The handwriting was unmistakable. It was hers.
“I don’t remember writing this,” Eleanor whispered.
The page described the kitchen exactly as it was now: the warm teapot, the two cats, the woman standing uncertainly between memory and evidence. At the bottom was a line she hadn’t yet read but somehow already knew.
When you forget where you put the book, it said, check the thing that remembers you best.
Ink sat down beside the teapot, tail wrapped neatly around his paws. Paper bumped Eleanor’s leg, purring like a kettle just before it boils.
Eleanor laughed softly, the sound shaky but real. She reached into the teapot once more and, carefully, drew the rest of the book out, page by page, restored and dry as if it had never been tea at all.
She set it back on the table, poured herself a fresh cup, and made a small note in the margin.
Next time, she wrote, use a bookmark.
This was a completely AI generated story and picture. I put the following prompts in : write a story including a woman, a teapot, two cats and a mystery surrounding a book. I think it turned out pretty fun, don’t you? AI can definitely replace my lame writing some days.
Hope you have an amazing day.
