Staff Doors Are Not The same

The cakes arrived still warm.

This would not have been remarkable, except that I had ordered nothing, and the room had not yet decided which century it preferred. The fire was laid but unlit. The lamps wore their yellow glow like borrowed jewelry. Outside the tall windows, dusk lingered in a shade I have only ever seen in photographs hand-tinted by someone with opinions.

The knock did not come.

The tray was simply present — poised on the low table between the sofa and the portrait of the woman who has lately taken to looking amused.