It started with a ping.
“Motion detected: Kitten Vintage Shop Floor.”
I was at home, halfway through a cup of chamomile when the Eufy notification popped up. Usually it’s a cane toad hopping past the window, Beckham,
(Or one memorable evening a possum that fell through the ceiling) but this time the preview looked… cosy. The light wasn’t the usual ghostly grey of night vision — it was warm, soft, golden.
I tapped it open.
For a second the image blurred, then came clear.
There, right in the middle of the shop floor, was a lace tablecloth — the one I’d folded away earlier — spread neatly across a timber crate. And gathered around it were the dolls.
They weren’t frightening, not tonight. Their plastic and porcelain faces looked almost shy, like guests unsure of their welcome. One held a teacup, another poured from a tiny pot that caught the light. I could almost smell the lavender and mothballs that always linger near the wardrobe.
And at the head of the table — just a shimmer, like light through gauze — sat a figure I knew by heart now. Elsie Wren.
The Singer hummed once, a gentle note, and the cuckoo clock chimed a single soft cuckoo, as if to toast the moment.
⸻
Then, padding into view, came Beckham.
He must have been woken by the sound, because there he was on the feed — tail high, whiskers forward, padding slowly between the tea cups as if he’d been invited. He paused beside Elsie’s shimmer, stretched, and settled at her feet, purring loud enough that I could almost hear it through the speaker.
No one moved to shoo him away. One of the dolls even reached out, resting her tiny plastic hand on his fur. He blinked, content, and stayed right there while they poured him an invisible saucer of cream.
I watched on the screen, tea forgotten, while the little feast played out in silence. The dolls lifted cups, passed invisible sweets, nodded and smiled as though sharing stories older than any of us.
When the cuckoo called the second time, the feed flickered and went dark.
⸻
I drove in early the next morning, half expecting to find teacups overturned or footprints in dust. Instead, everything was perfect. Beckham was stretched out on the counter, blinking sleepily, a dusting of glitter — or maybe thread fibres — on his fur.
The only sign of the night’s gathering was a single teaspoon left on the counter — clean, polished, warm to the touch. And beside it, a loop of gold thread tied in a bow.
Maybe every old shop keeps its own kind of after-hours tea party.
Mine just happens to have very good manners — and one very lucky cat.
Join us next week for the next instalment 💛