A couple of hours later, I remembered the hat.

  I touched it — dry. Warm. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, studied the knitting. Tight. Even.

  And then it hit me.

  "Wait..." I said out loud.

  Pause.

  "Alexander knits."

  I froze, then smirked at myself.

  "Oh, you sly fox..." I said with feeling.

  Of course.

  Someone had mentioned it — Jo-Jo or Phil, I can't even remember now — that Alexander knits hats. And not just casually. Properly. With love. With care. With that strange attention to detail he puts into everything.

  Slowly, I shifted my gaze toward the couch.

  The blanket moved slightly.

  Pi-Pu was still there. Under the blanket. As if it were his officially assigned residence. He didn't seem in any hurry to emerge.

  And then something clicked a second time in my head.

  "The cookies..." I murmured.

  "The sweets..."

  I leaned against the counter and let out a quiet, stunned laugh.

  "So that's who's been stealing the sugar," I said more confidently now. "So that's who."

  It wasn't a marten.

  Not rats.

  Not a neighbor's badly behaved cat.

  It was Pi-Pu.

  Small.

  Fluffy.

  He'd simply slipped into Phil's house to warm up.

  Taken the hat.

  And then come to me.

  I looked at the blanket.

  "Well, aren't you something," I said softly.

  A paw appeared from beneath it. Then a nose. Then one bright yellow eye.

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  He looked at me calmly. Without shame. Almost with mild superiority.

  As if to say:

  Well, what did you expect? It's winter.

  I held the hat out toward Pi-Pu.

  He shot out from under the blanket as if launched from a catapult. Made one circle around the living room. Then another. Then a third — a small, bustling, delighted whirlwind. It was obvious: he understood.

  His joy wasn't human — it was simple, physical, honest.

  And then I finally noticed what I hadn't seen before.

  A tail.

  Small. Neat. Covered in very short fur — reddish, warm, like dried autumn leaves. It stuck out from beneath his fluffy body and trembled slightly. How I'd missed it before, I have no idea.

  I carefully placed the hat on the couch.

  Pi-Pu instantly jumped onto it — and, without a second of hesitation, put it on.

  The hat was enormous on him. It slid down his back, covered almost his entire body, hung like a soft cloak. Only the ridiculous little tail stuck out behind.

  Pi-Pu sighed loudly.

  Content.

  Deeply.

  The way a creature sighs when something important has finally been returned.

  Then, without even looking at me, he turned and quickly dove back under the blanket. Settled in. Rustled. Fell still.

  Like a king retiring after reclaiming his crown.

  I smiled.

  Then I went and unplugged the rodent repeller. I definitely didn't need it anymore.

  Phil still hadn't replied.

  I glanced toward the studio.

  Well then.

  I went back to the heron.

  The painting needed to be finished — just a few strokes left. And commissions were waiting too. The world, however strange it had become, still honored deadlines.

  I picked up the brush.

  The white feather grew warmer.

  The shadow beneath the wing deepened.

  The flower came alive.

  Suddenly I was ravenously hungry.

  Not the "I could snack" kind — the kind where if I don't eat right now, I'll become unreasonable and dangerous.

  I went into the kitchen.

  Pi-Pu followed.

  He wasn't trembling anymore. Wasn't shrinking away. Wasn't lost. He kept a respectful distance — carefully, deliberately — like a creature who had decided: we are in the same pack now, but I'm still learning the rules.

  The hat was still on him.

  Too big.

  Ridiculous.

  Absolutely perfect.

  I took out the last packet of cookies and placed it beside him — without comment. Pi-Pu understood immediately that it was an invitation.

  For myself, I started cooking vegetables with noodles, Asian-style. The hiss of oil, garlic, soy sauce, chili — the smells were bright, sharp, promising. I made it spicy. The way I like it.

  Pi-Pu approached.

  Sniffed.

  Made a face.

  A very expressive one.

  As if I'd offered him laundry detergent.

  He even turned away, pointedly.

  Fine. More for me.

  The cookies, however...

  The cookies were eaten entirely.

  Slowly.

  With feeling.

  With crumbs on his paws.

  He sat sideways while eating, occasionally glancing at me as if checking whether I might change my mind. Then he licked himself clean — thoroughly, businesslike. In the hat, he looked especially touching.

  We ate together.

  Me — noodles, hot and sharp, the kind that warm you from the inside.

  Him — cookies, down to the last crumb.

  It was... unexpectedly good.

  Peaceful.

  Intimate.

  Two beings in a kitchen.

  Each with their own food.

  In one house.

  In one moment.

  I looked at him and suddenly thought:

  yes, this is probably how the strangest friendships begin.

  The next few days passed beautifully.

  Unnoticed. Softly. As if someone had removed all the sharp edges from time and left only warm lines.

  I baked sweet pies — more often than I ever had in my life. Apple. Cinnamon. Berries. I wouldn't have done that just for myself. Definitely not. But I was inspired... and Pi-Pu needed feeding. It sounded like an excuse, but in truth it was joy.

  We ate them together.

  I — at the table.

  He — nearby, on the floor or the couch, carefully, attentively, like a creature who treats food as a sacred ritual.

  Through trial and error, I discovered something surprising:

  yes, he drank water...

  but he preferred cooled black tea with honey.

  Specifically the kind that had sat long enough to lose its heat.

  He would approach, sniff, taste with the tip of his tongue — and only then drink. With dignity.

  He slept only with me.

  At my side.

  Warm.

  Alive.

  He no longer feared me. Not at all. Sometimes he woke earlier, stretched, rolled closer, and tucked his nose somewhere beneath my shoulder or into the bend of my arm.

  I considered bathing him.

  Honestly, I did.

  But he didn't smell. Not at all. He smelled neutral, warm, faintly sweet. So I decided not to stress him. Let things unfold naturally.

  He often groomed his fur with his long tongue — meticulously, seriously, sometimes in poses so dramatic I had to look away to avoid laughing. He did it with the gravity of someone performing an essential mission to maintain universal order.

  And also...

  He snored.

  Sometimes quite loudly.

  Not sharp. Not irritating.

  Deep. Even. Vibrating.

  It wasn't just the sound of sleep — it was the sound of presence. Like purring, but fuller. Warmer. It made you want to move closer, not push away.

  I found myself falling asleep faster. More calmly. More securely.

  As if beside me was someone who knew — absolutely knew — that everything was under control.

  And even though I still didn't fully understand who exactly was sleeping next to me—

  I knew one thing:

  those few days were among the quietest and most right I'd had in a long time.