The next morning began with tragedy.
Not a major one—no fire, flood, or quantum blender mishap.
No, this was the quiet heartbreak of mug betrayal.
Gregory opened the cupboard and froze.
"Where," he asked the toaster (because it was the only appliance that listened without judgment), "is my 'I'm Trying My Best (and I Have Snacks)' mug?"
Maurice poked his head out from inside the cereal box. "You mean the Emotional Support Mug?"
"Yes," Gregory whispered. "The one that's just the right weight and smells faintly of cinnamon trauma."
Maurice shrugged. "Maybe it's with the others."
Gregory blinked. "Others?"
Maurice tossed a Froot Loop in his mouth. "You don't think mugs just disappear. They… migrate."
"Migrate?"
"To the back of the top shelf. The Land of Lost Ceramics."
Gregory stepped onto a stool like a knight mounting a slightly wobbly steed. He reached high, into the Forbidden Zone.
And found it.
A gathering.
Six mugs.
Mismatched. Slightly chipped. Deeply caffeinated.
