Tina The Bunny Maid -final- By Mikiy Apr 2026

“Tina, my dear,” he had said, his voice a dry rustle of old parchment. “When the final chime comes, don’t mourn. Just close the front door and let the flowers grow over the gates.”

And somewhere, in the silence, a ghost laughed, and a cup of tea stayed warm.

The sun dipped below the edge of the world. The Viscount’s soul-clock gave one final, clear chime.

The first thing Tina noticed was the silence. Tina the Bunny Maid -Final- By MikiY

One more day. Tina’s whiskers trembled. A single, perfect day. She thought of all the mornings she had served him tea in the Sunroom, the way his hollow eyes would brighten when she added three lumps of sugar. She thought of the library, where they had read tales of lost kingdoms, and the greenhouse where she had grown moon-carrots just to make him laugh.

“Temporal Lichen,” whispered a voice.

The Grand Ballroom was a crypt of echoes. The chandeliers, once a cascade of captured lightning, now hung dark as dead stars. Tina hopped lightly onto a floating maintenance platform—her personal chariot—and rose toward the main gearbox behind the massive clock face on the south wall. “Tina, my dear,” he had said, his voice

“I know, my Lord.”

And then he laughed. A real laugh, rusty but warm, like an old music box playing one last waltz.

Tina closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was standing in the front hall. The obsidian floors were cold. The pendulum was still. The silver bells on her cap were silent. The sun dipped below the edge of the world

But Tina was a bunny maid. Not a rabbit, mind you. A bunny maid. There was a difference. Rabbits fled. Bunny maids cleaned. They organized. They ensured the silver was polished and the teacups faced precisely southwest in their cabinets. She could no more abandon the Estate than she could stop her nose from twitching.

Tina adjusted her bow—a perfect, powder-blue satin knot that had become her signature—and smoothed the front of her starched apron. Her long, cream-colored ears twitched, scanning for sound. Nothing. Even the ghost of the late Viscount, who usually rattled his chains in the West Corridor precisely at 2:17 PM, was absent.

So she did what she always did. She picked up her feather duster—a family heirloom, its handle carved from the femur of a phoenix—and she began her rounds.

“To my dearest Tina: You were never a servant. You were the only heartbeat this old clock ever had. Give me one more sunrise with you. That’s all I ask. – A”

She walked to the front door, just as he had asked. She opened it. Outside, the garden had grown wild—roses twined with clockwork vines, and over the iron gates, a cascade of white flowers had begun to bloom.