A Kettle for No One

Mio · May 31, 2025

There was a town that emptied without explanation.

Not all at once — gradually, the way a fire goes out
when no one tends it.
First the flower shop closed.
Then the bus stopped running.
Then one morning, the streets were simply quiet
in a way that didn't feel temporary.

Mio stayed.

She couldn't have said why, exactly.
Only that the cafe was still there,
and someone should keep the lights on.

Every morning she wiped down the tables.
Every afternoon she filled the kettle and set it on the gas.
She chose a cup — always one, always clean —
and waited for the water to boil.

No one came.

The music played anyway.
Old recordings, the kind that don't ask anything of you.
She learned to let the songs finish
without needing to know who they were for.

The sugar packets were the hardest part.

She kept setting them out beside the cup,
the way you do when someone is expected.
And every evening she'd collect them, untouched,
and put them back in the drawer.

After a while she stopped putting them back.
Just let them accumulate —
a quiet record of days when sweetness hadn't been needed.

She wasn't sure what she was keeping them for.
Only that throwing them away felt wrong.

She doesn't know how long it lasted.

Time moves differently when there's no one to measure it against.
She boiled water. She waited. She kept the light on.

And then one day,
she heard footsteps on the staircase.

Quiet ones — the kind that weren't sure yet
if they were allowed to be there.

She straightened her apron.
Set out a clean cup.
Added a sugar packet to the saucer.

"Welcome," she said,
in the voice she had been saving.

The kettle was already singing.