I slipped off my boots, set them crookedly against the wall, and absentmindedly sorted through the mail. Bills, ads, something with an official seal... the usual nonsense.

  Then I lifted my head.

  It was standing in the kitchen. Right by the entrance.

  Small but extremely fluffy—oddly assembled, as if nature hadn't quite decided what it was meant to be. Its tiny paws trembled, either from cold or tension. The fur stuck out in places. It wasn't hiding.

  Its eyes were half-open—bright yellow, far too attentive. Its gaze darted: to the table, to me, back to the table. As if it were trying to understand the rules. Or waiting for permission.

  We stared at each other in silence.

  I didn't move. Neither did it.

  A ridiculous, completely inappropriate thought flickered through my mind: it looked guilty. Like a child caught sneaking into the kitchen at night.

  "You..." I began—and stopped.

  Its paws trembled harder.

  Then it hit me.

  Cookies.

  I don't know why that was the solution my brain chose. Carefully, I walked to the table, took a small plate, placed one cookie on it, and set it on the floor. Just in case—I put another one directly on the tile beside it.

  It trembled. Hesitated. Took a tiny step—then froze.

  Finally, it approached.

  Very cautiously.

  It grabbed the cookie—not with a paw, but almost with its whole body at once—pressed it to the floor and began eating. Quickly. Focused. As if this wasn't a treat but a matter of survival. Then it licked itself. Sneezed. And started trembling again.

  "Are you cold?" I asked quietly. "It's not cold in here..."

  And then it struck me like electricity.

  What if... the hat...

  I spun around, flung open the front door, grabbed the wet knitted hat from the railing, and came back into the kitchen.

  "Is this... yours?"

  I held it up.

  And it came alive.

  It spun in place, fussed, made a strange little hop, then another, as if dancing without knowing what to do with itself. There wasn't a second of doubt left—that was its hat.

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  "Oh my God... wow!" I exclaimed.

  I turned the heater up and hung the hat over it, carefully smoothing it out as if it were something important. Then I brought more cookies and placed them on the floor again.

  Now it ate more boldly. Still trembling, but the fear seemed to be retreating. The cookies disappeared one after another. I didn't even notice when the whole package was gone.

  Completely.

  It licked its lips, looked at the empty spot... then at me.

  And started walking toward me.

  Slowly.

  I froze. My mind lit up all at once: it will bite, infection, claws, rabies, what am I even doing?

  It came right up to me.

  Lifted one lower paw and gently placed it on my leg.

  Warm.

  Very warm.

  It looked up at me—those same yellow eyes, but no longer frightened. Trusting.

  And quietly said:

  "Pi-pu."

  The voice was thin. Almost funny.

  I stared at it as if my coffee mug had just spoken.

  "You... said something?" I breathed.

  It blinked. Calmly. No panic. No attempt to flee.

  "Pi-pu," it repeated in the same tiny voice.

  I swallowed.

  "Is that... thank you?" I guessed aloud. "Or is that your name?"

  It tilted its head sideways—a gesture so impossibly meaningful it hurt—and in the next second it shot off.

  Puff—and it was gone.

  I barely had time to turn my head before it dashed into the living room, leapt onto the couch, and burrowed under the blanket with such determination as if it were the last safe place on earth. The blanket shifted slightly... and went still.

  "Perfect," I muttered. "I now have something in my house that eats cookies, wears knitted hats, and can talk."

  I sat down at the table with my laptop.

  I didn't even try to photograph the creature. First, it clearly didn't want attention. Second... if I'm honest, I was afraid of scaring it.

  I opened the browser and started searching.

  "Small black fluffy creature, round-shaped, yellow eyes, bright long red-orange tongue, talks."

  I scrolled through pages, changed wording, added and removed details. Nothing. Not a single match. No hint. No bizarre article, no conspiracy forum, not even a "my grandfather saw one in 1973."

  Zero.

  I closed the laptop and looked toward the couch.

  The blanket was motionless. Only the faintest bulge betrayed the presence of something alive beneath it.

  "All right," I said quietly. "We'll sit. We'll think. No one's in a hurry."

  And then it dawned on me.

  I wasn't panicking.

  Fear—yes. Confusion—absolutely. Absurdity—plenty.

  But not panic.

  As if somewhere inside me there already existed a place that knew: this is strange, but not dangerous.

  I stared out the window at the snow—and for the first time in a long while, I thought that maybe my house was alive again.

  Even if I didn't yet know who exactly was living in it now.

  My phone vibrated.

  "Good afternoon," a cheerful unfamiliar voice said. "Tomorrow the chimney sweep will be coming to your house. Chimney inspection, as previously announced."

  Something tightened inside me.

  Tomorrow.

  A stranger.

  In the house.

  After yesterday.

  I instinctively looked at the couch. The blanket was still motionless. But I knew—he was there. Warm. Alive. Mine.

  "Um..." I hesitated. "Tomorrow won't work."

  "Why not?" they asked immediately. "It's a scheduled round."

  Everything raced through my head at once:

  he'll see,

  he'll ask,

  he'll report it somewhere,

  and then they'll take him.

  "I have the flu," I said. "A severe case."

  I surprised myself with how confident it sounded.

  "That's not a problem," the voice replied, as if I had said I had a runny nose. "The chimney sweep will wear a mask."

  Of course. A mask. As if that solved anything.

  "No," I said more firmly. "I'm not well. Very. It's not possible right now."

  "But this is important," they insisted. "The inspection is mandatory, we can—"

  "No," I cut in. "It won't work."

  They kept talking. Persuading. Pressuring. Far too long for a routine call.

  And suddenly I felt anger.

  Quiet. Cold.

  "I said no," I enunciated clearly—and hung up.

  Silence returned instantly—as if the house exhaled with me.

  I sat there, pressing the phone to my chest, and only then realized my hands were actually shaking with anger.

  "Boldness is the second happiness," I said aloud into the empty room and snorted irritably. "But not in my house."

  The words hung in the air and immediately felt fragile.

  And then a thought—cold and sharp—latched onto me:

  what if yesterday's voice...

  what if whatever threw me into the snow...

  is somehow connected to Pi-Pu?

  I slowly sat down.

  Everything flashed before my eyes at once: the flare, the impact, the underwater hum. And that woman. In white. I hadn't even reached her. Didn't have time. Or... wasn't allowed to?

  "Who were you?" I whispered.

  The house remained silent.

  I suddenly felt a desperate need to tell someone alive. Not the internet. Not a search bar. But a person who would say: "All right. Calm down. Here's what we do."

  But Alexander's number...

  I didn't have it.

  And that made it worse.

  I exhaled, took my phone, and opened the chat with Phil.

  How are you? I typed.

  Then added: Everything okay?

  My fingers hovered.

  I needed the number. But I couldn't exactly write:

  "Hi, there's a fluffy creature in my house, something threw me into a snowbank yesterday, and I heard Latin out of nowhere."

  I bit my lip.

  Could you give me Alexander's number? I typed...

  Too direct.

  I thought for a second... then another... and added:

  I want to ask him for the recipe for those meringue cream rolls ??

  Sent.

  And immediately realized it was the most ridiculous lie my brain could possibly produce.

  "Brilliant, Molly," I muttered to myself. "Mysterious voices, strange women... and you're like: 'By the way, any chance you've got that cream recipe?'"