Christmas was approaching.

  You could feel it in everything — in the smells, in the light, in the way evening settled a little more gently than usual. And along with it came Frau Schwarzenegger — cleaning day was marked in the calendar with the precision of inevitability. I didn't want to cancel her visit; the house truly needed cleaning.

  And that was when I became genuinely anxious.

  I was worried about Pi-Pu.

  Not abstractly — truly. To the point where my chest tightened. I imagined her opening the door, him getting frightened, hiding, darting out... or freezing. What if she saw him? What if she told someone? What if someone decided that something like "that" couldn't simply be left alone?

  I was certain:

  he was unique.

  And at the first convenient opportunity, they would either take him, steal him, "study" him, or simply decide for me that I wasn't meant to have him.

  I couldn't allow that.

  I spoke to him.

  Seriously. Calmly. As if to someone who understands more than he lets on.

  I had prepared a warm, soft place for him in the studio in advance — away from the windows, with a blanket and a pillow. It was quiet there and smelled of paint and home. He sat beside me in his hat, watching with those half-lidded yellow eyes — attentive, focused.

  "Listen to me," I said quietly. "Please."

  I explained slowly, in simple words. That tomorrow a stranger would come. That she mustn't see him. That he must not come out. That it was important. That there would be food — delicious, I promise. That I would lock the door. That I would come often. That I wasn't going anywhere.

  He didn't run.

  He just listened.

  I decided I would tell Frau Schwarzenegger not to clean the studio this time. I'd find an excuse. Paint. A mess. Anything. The important thing was that she wouldn't go in there.

  When everything was ready, I sat down on the floor beside him.

  "It's not for long," I said. "We'll manage."

  He snorted softly, as if agreeing.

  Phil finally replied.

  I actually flinched at the notification sound — I had waited so long that I'd stopped expecting it.

  The message was longer than usual.

  I read the main line first — then read it again.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Alexander doesn't have a mobile phone."

  I stared at the screen.

  What do you mean — doesn't have one?

  I even said it out loud, very clearly, syllable by syllable:

  "How... is that possible?"

  He has a supercar.

  Knits better than half of Etsy.

  Appears and disappears without warning.

  And he doesn't own a smartphone?

  I imagined him looking at an iPhone with the same expression normal people reserve for a microwave in a museum:

  interesting, but why?

  I snorted and kept reading.

  Phil's tone shifted — warm, domestic:

  "I really want to celebrate Christmas properly this year.

  No fuss. No polite guests.

  Just sit, talk, eat something good.

  Home-style. Cozy."

  Something inside me responded softly.

  Then another line:

  "Come spend Christmas with us.

  Let's have the evening together.

  Food's on us."

  I smiled.

  I typed a reply, erased it, typed again.

  Finally:

  "With pleasure. Of course I'll come."

  I quickly ran on foot to the nearest mini-shop — almost jogging, the plastic bag cutting into my fingers, thinking I couldn't linger even a minute. Snow crunched underfoot, the air was sharp, my cheeks burning. All I could think was: let him still be there, let everything be calm.

  I came back, slid the key into the door.

  And immediately — rustling.

  "Pi-pu..." I thought automatically. "Greeting me..."

  I opened the door.

  And froze.

  He was deflating.

  Not metaphorically. Not "it seemed."

  He was physically shrinking.

  In front of me stood a creature the size of... a dresser. Large, rounded, oddly soft around the edges, as if inflated from within. His fur rippled as his body slowly subsided, as though air were being released from him. Very slowly.

  Cold slid down my spine.

  I stepped inside quietly — as quietly as one can enter with groceries and trembling hands — and shut the door fast, pressing my back against it, checking the lock as if it could protect me from this.

  "Please let no one..." flashed through my mind. "Please let no one see..."

  I didn't move. I just watched.

  Pi-Pu continued to shrink.

  A dresser became an armchair.

  An armchair became an ottoman.

  An ottoman became something almost familiar.

  He suddenly sneezed. Loudly. With feeling. My shoulder jerked.

  His knitted hat lay on the floor nearby.

  And then, now nearly normal-sized, he awkwardly hooked it, put it on — crookedly, but with clear relief — and...

  ...ran off.

  Quick. Nimble. Businesslike.

  As if nothing had happened.

  I stood in the hallway with my mouth open.

  "...what was that?" I said quietly to the emptiness.

  I stood there breathing for a few seconds, trying to catch up with reality, and suddenly understood:

  if he can do that...

  then I know far less about him than I thought.

  I realized how cold I was.

  My hand ached — the bag had pressed into my fingers until they went numb. I struggled to unclench them and dropped the groceries. The milk thudded. Something rolled. I didn't care.

  "Wonderful," I muttered. "Just wonderful. Normal people have cats. At most a hamster. And you... have an inflatable creature of unknown origin."

  He had been scared — that much was obvious.

  But of what?

  People?

  The fact that I wasn't home?

  Or... was he doing something while I was gone?

  The thought struck suddenly and held fast.

  What if he was guarding the house? What if someone came while I was away?

  "Are you... a guard?" I whispered into the air.

  There was no answer, of course.

  But inside, things quieted slightly.

  That evening we watched a series.

  Me — on the couch.

  Pi-Pu — tucked against my side in his oversized hat, occasionally sighing and snorting as if commenting on the plot.

  At one particularly dramatic pause, he snored loudly.

  "Of course," I said. "The most intense moment, and you fall asleep."

  He didn't take offense.

  The next day Frau Schwarzenegger arrived exactly on time, as always.

  I saw her through the window. The car pulled up, stopped for barely a minute. A woman was driving. She dropped Frau Schwarzenegger off, said something without even turning off the engine, and drove away immediately.

  I had prepared everything.

  Pi-Pu was locked in the studio. Warm soft place, pillow. I left him cheesecake — his favorite — and a cup of honey tea, cooled just the way he liked it. I even sat beside him and said sternly, like an adult:

  "Don't come out. Please. It's important."

  The doorbell rang precisely as I was heading to open it.

  And then the impossible happened.

  A whirlwind rushed past me — low, fast, warm — nearly knocking me over. I gasped and grabbed the wall instinctively.

  "Pi-Pu?!"

  It was him.

  He ran to the door — not swelling, not turning into anything terrifying. Just small, quick, focused. He pressed his nose to the crack at the threshold, inhaled — and instantly spun around and vanished down the corridor.

  "What the—" I whispered.

  I turned back to the door, trying to sound calm, and called out:

  "Frau Schwarzenegger, please wait just a moment! I'll be right there, I just need to get dressed!"

  "Of course," she replied in her usual tone.

  I rushed to find Pi-Pu.

  Living room — empty. Kitchen — empty. Under the couch — no. I even checked behind the curtains.

  My heart pounded.

  "I locked..." I muttered. "I definitely locked..."

  I ran to the studio.

  The door was closed. Locked.

  I inserted the key. Turned it. Opened it.

  Pi-Pu sat in his spot. Calm. In his hat. Cheesecake crumbs on his fur. The tea almost finished.

  He looked up at me and blinked.

  I stood there, not breathing.

  "How..." I began — and stopped.

  "All right," I said quietly. "We'll discuss this later."

  I locked the studio again. Checked the handle. Checked it once more. Stood for a second with my palm pressed to the door.

  Then I took a deep breath, straightened up, and went to open the door for Frau Schwarzenegger.