Polly did not live in the graveyard. That would’ve been too obvious.

Instead, Cedar Grove’s resident telegraph ghost had set up shop in the attic above the old abandoned post office that was now half consumed by ivy and home to a suspicious number of sentient pigeons.

Jo, Mira, and Clorvex stood outside the crooked building, staring up at a flickering light bulb that blinked S.O.S. in Morse code.

“She invited us, right?” Jo asked, tightening her jacket.

“No,” Mira replied. “She dared us.”

Clorvex tossed a biscotti into his mouth. “Same thing.”

Inside, the staircase creaked like a grumpy accordion. Jo led the way with her mop like a torchbearer. At the top was a thick velvet curtain embroidered with teacups and lightning bolts. 

A sign above read, POLLY’S PARLOR OF PARTIAL TRUTHS. Answers Available. Accuracy Optional. BYOTea.

Jo pushed the curtain aside.

The room was layered in dust and moonlight. Shelves of abandoned mail swayed with faint whispers. In the center sat Polly, translucent, stylish in Victorian lace, and sipping a cup of something glowing.

“Took you long enough,” Polly said, her voice like static and sass. “I steeped for seventy-five years waiting for this showdown.”

“You left a message,” Jo said, holding out the photograph. “Who is she?”

Polly waved a hand and the photo floated midair, spinning slowly.

“She’s your mother.”

Jo blinked. “No, she’s not. My mother was…”

“A decoy,” Polly cut in. “Nice lady. But this one? She brewed you from something older. Something steeped in silence. A spell disguised as childhood.”

The walls shivered and Mira reached for Jo’s arm.

“Why don’t I remember her?” Jo whispered.

“Because memory is loud,” Polly said. “But tea…tea is quiet. Too quiet sometimes. Your mother knew you’d only hear her story when the leaves began to whisper again.”

Clorvex raised an eyebrow. “This is very dramatic for a tea reveal. I don’t think I brought enough biscotti for this.”

“I’m a ghost. I live for drama,” Polly grinned.

A drawer popped open behind them and a box of ancient tea bags slid out.

Jo knelt, picked up the box, and opened it.

Inside was a single blend with a handwritten label.

Jo’s First Steep. Silencebound. Do Not Brew Until Ready.

Polly’s eyes flickered. “Brew that, and the truth wakes up.”

Jo stood, staring at the box.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“No,” Polly whispered. “You’re steeping.”