Across town, people wake to parfait-level staging in their living rooms, yet every lock sits smugly in place. Planters retire from botany and moonlight as bonbon bowls. Sugar goes feral in the night, then returns by sunrise in tight little ballet spirals that could pass a drill inspection.
Police reports arrive scented like a candy shop after choir practice. The forms tastefully whisper caramel and mint, and alarm systems refuse to gossip. Doors stay bolted, windows stay latched, and still a mousse lands on the ottoman with the poise of a cat that pays rent on time.
Witnesses describe a courteous tap at a shockingly sensible hour, followed by a thank you that might be the heating, except the heating does not usually say please. Security cameras offer only a theatrical shimmer that scouts the perfect spot for gummies, places them with the gravity of a museum curator, then exits stage left before anyone can applaud.
The candy behaves like it went to finishing school. Mints sort themselves by size, then by ambition. A square of fudge sits on a porcelain dish with its corners pressed, as if it ironed itself and tipped the bellhop. Chocolates appear on pillows like a five-star turndown from an invisible concierge who knows your preferred cacao percentage and your stance on candied orange.
Clues remain adorable and useless. A sugar spiral stops short of the table leg, as if it remembered its manners and bowed. The window fog shows a perfect little oval, a no breath signature that would make a ghost blush. The chain latch stays perfectly set. The cat stares into a very occupied-looking patch of air, then nods once like a doorman who recognizes a regular.
Theories multiply like jelly beans. Some swear a confectioner wisp is making morale calls, armed with a piping bag and a strict code of etiquette. Others insist a seasonal house spirit with a sweet tooth is running indoor reverse trick or treating, complete with route maps, tasting notes, and a tiny clipboard. A small but vocal faction claims the sweets are unionized and performing community service hours for crimes against restraint.
If this happens to you, match the vibe. Leave a thank you on the mantel in your neatest handwriting. Set out a clean saucer in case plating is part of the ritual. Offer a cinnamon stick as a signing bonus. Wake to your chocolate with your alarm still armed, let the cat handle guest relations, and allow the sugar spirals to tidy themselves on the way out. The universe, it turns out, respects good ambiance and will absolutely refill the candy dish when no one is looking.
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