Welcome to the baffling year of 1843, where the only thing more transparent than our intentions is the ink we forgot to use!

The latest gossip from the aristocratic alleyways involves a certain Mr. Percival Puddlesploosh, who insists that his prized soufflé levitated out of the window of its own accord. Eyewitnesses promptly disappeared, presumably into a cheese-induced deluge of despair.

Need advice? Consult our invisible oracle, who speaks only in what-ifs and humorous digressions about the impact of rubber ducks on existential philosophy.

And who could forget Lady Eloise's annual "Invisible Parlor Games"? Last year's highlight was the record-breaking number of attendees who forgot they were even present.

The moral of today’s invisible tale: When life hands you invisible lemons, make phantom lemonade—or at the very least, invisible pie!