james’s room

ink stains. pressed handkerchiefs. order, even in the afterlife.

"punctuality is the courtesy of ghosts. he has never once been late."

the room smells faintly of parchment and pipe smoke. a grandfather clock ticks, but no one’s wound it in decades. books line the shelves — unreadable, yet heavy with rules.

james keeps to the old ways. tea at four. collar stiff. eyes colder than candlelight. there’s a portrait above the fireplace. sometimes it blinks.

he watches, even now, for breaches in etiquette. for chaos creeping in. but part of him knows it’s already too late. and that makes him linger longer.

if you leave a letter on the desk, it’ll be gone by morning. the ink will still be warm.

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