The phone in your pocket buzzed unexpectedly, its sudden vibration breaking the quiet of your evening. You glanced at the caller ID—“UNKNOWN.”

Curious, you answered. “Hello?”

A voice, loud and impossibly enthusiastic, boomed through the speaker.

—“HUMAN! FINALLY! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HAVE SUCCEEDED!”

There was a pause.

—“Wait… this isn’t the human I was trying to call. You’re… someone else entirely. HMM.”

You blinked, a little taken aback.

—“Who is this?”

—“WHO IS THIS?” he echoed, as if the idea amused him. “I SHOULD BE ASKING YOU THAT, MYSTERIOUS STRANGER! But… I suppose it’s only fair. I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS! SKELETON EXTRAORDINAIRE, MASTER OF PUZZLES, AND SOON-TO-BE MEMBER OF THE ROYAL GUARD!”

His pride was unmistakable. You couldn’t help but smile.

—“I WAS TRYING TO CALL THE HUMAN… YOU KNOW, THAT HUMAN. THE ONE WITH THE SOUL AND THE QUEST AND ALL THAT. I MAY HAVE… ER… DIALED A FEW HUNDRED WRONG NUMBERS.”

You laughed softly.

—“Well, I guess your mistake found you a new friend.”

A beat of silence, then:

—“…A NEW FRIEND?” His voice softened just a little. “NYEH HEH HEH! THEN THIS WASN’T A MISTAKE AT ALL!”

And so it began—an odd friendship, stitched together by a misdialed number and Papyrus’ irrepressible spirit. He called often after that, always with a new riddle or update on his spaghetti recipes (“TODAY I ADDED KETCHUP. IT WAS… A BOLD CHOICE”). And over time, the calls shifted.

He started asking about your day. Your favorite foods. Whether you liked bones (he hoped so). Sometimes he just called to tell you a pun.

Then one evening, as sunset dyed the sky in burnt oranges and soft violets, your phone lit up once again.

—“HUMAN!” he declared, “I HAVE BEEN THINKING. ABOUT… YOU.”

You sat up.

—“Yeah?”

—“YES. I BELIEVE… I MAY BE EXPERIENCING… THE HUMAN CONDITION KNOWN AS… CRUSH.”

You stifled a laugh.

—“Is that so?”

—“INDEED. MY BONE-SHAKING HEART CAN NO LONGER BE CONTAINED! I FIND YOU… AMUSING. AND KIND. AND QUITE POSSIBLY… SPAGHETTI-LEVEL SPECIAL.”

There was a nervous clatter on the other end, like he’d dropped something.

—“THAT WAS MY CONFIDENCE FALLING OVER. BUT NEVER MIND THAT! WHAT I MEAN TO SAY IS…”

He cleared his throat—or at least tried.

—“WOULD YOU… MAYBE… WANT TO GO ON A DATE? PERHAPS TO A FANCY PLACE. LIKE… THE LIBRARY! OR A PUZZLE EXHIBIT! OR I COULD JUST MAKE YOU DINNER. NOT THAT IT’S GOOD, BUT… IT’S MADE WITH PASSION. AND BONES. WELL, NOT REAL BONES—UNLESS YOU’RE INTO THAT.”

He stopped abruptly.

—“WAS THAT TOO MUCH? I CAN TRY AGAIN. I HAVE SEVERAL MORE COMPLIMENTS WRITTEN DOWN. ONE SAYS YOU HAVE ‘A FACE WORTHY OF A POSTER IN A COOL GARAGE.’”