Alexander sat down beside me—closer than one would for a simple conversation, yet without crossing any boundary. Like someone who knows exactly how close he can be without frightening you. His palm rested on my shoulder, then slowly slid down my arm, calming, returning the sensation of having a body.

  "Easy..." he said quietly. "It's all right. You're safe."

  He spoke as if it were neither a request nor comfort, but knowledge.

  I was still lying there, unable to move fully, but the panic began to retreat. My heart slowed. The air became air again—not a wall.

  "In Phil's room," he continued calmly, "you saw a young Shi-Moo."

  He said it almost fondly.

  "A silly little one," he added, and suddenly let out a quiet chuckle, as if recalling something very personal. "They made quite a fuss. Outside. With others their age."

  I stared at him without blinking.

  "They were running through houses," Alexander went on. "Stealing sweets. Candy, cookies—anything that smells of sugar. They love that."

  He looked at me intently.

  "People don't see them," he said. "No one does.

  People hear rustling, find crumbs, wrappers... and assume it's rats."

  I remembered the candy. The cookies. The crumbs. The cream smeared across the table.

  Everything fell into place—and that only made it worse.

  "We asked them not to leave the house," Alexander said gently, though a note of severity flickered in his voice. "They're still too young. Mischievous. They don't listen.

  They don't guard yet. They're only learning. We had to punish them a little. But as you can see, it doesn't help much..."

  He shook his head slightly.

  "Because of them, the whole street was buzzing," he added.

  "It's a good thing no one sees them," he said. "Except you. And I don't know why..."

  He looked at me again.

  He sighed heavily—the kind of sigh that comes when a decision has been made and cannot be undone.

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  "Phil is safe," Alexander said quietly. "He's healthy."

  I tensed.

  "He... carries a gentle being. Simply put, he's pregnant."

  The word sounded strange—not frightening, almost mundane. Like a fact long accepted.

  "In his body, a baby Lactimol is growing," he continued. "The Fliiruses chose him. Why—we don't know. And we're not meant to know. It's not for us to decide."

  He spoke calmly, without solemnity, as if describing the changing of seasons.

  "Now he's a mommy," Alexander added softly and smiled. "And he must be protected.

  So the Lactimol can be born."

  I tried to process what I was hearing, but the words seemed to pass through me without catching.

  "The Pteroseruses take care of the house and of Phil," he said. "Don't worry.

  Better than them, perhaps no one could."

  He turned his head toward the conservatory, where the leaves rustled.

  "Yes, Gunya?" he asked quietly.

  Then he looked back at me.

  "Don't come out," he said in that direction. "Later, I'll introduce you."

  He turned back to me—his voice now barely above a whisper:

  "Don't worry, Molly.

  Something may frighten you... that's normal.

  But we pose no threat. We are here for good."

  He said it not as a justification, but as a promise.

  "I don't want to overload you with information," he went on. "You've already had too much."

  He paused for a second.

  "I'll have to put you into a special state," he said. "You'll forget what happened here today.

  But tomorrow we'll meet again. And I'll tell you more."

  I wanted to object. To ask. To scream. To hold on to at least something.

  But it was impossible.

  "You've come under our dome," he said. "By accident or not—that doesn't matter yet.

  Now you must know. To be safe."

  He leaned closer.

  "But not all at once," he added. "For your own peace."

  He cupped my head in his hands—gently, but firmly. His thumbs rested against my temples and pressed lightly.

  The world drifted softly.

  The last sensation was warmth—not from outside, but within, as if I were being wrapped from the inside.

  And then—nothing.

  I came to already at home.

  I was sitting on the couch. The TV was playing something. The Christmas tree stood in the living room—I had already decorated it. The ornaments hung neatly, the lights glowed softly.

  My head was empty.

  Calm.

  Thoughts of Phil, of his house, of the strange events—did not return. At all.

  As if they had never existed.

  I just watched the screen, then straightened an ornament on a branch, smiled at something silly on the show.

  I caught myself thinking about Alexander.

  Not on purpose—the thoughts simply returned. His calm. His voice. And that coat... the knitted coat for Bridget. So neat, thoughtful, beautiful. There was something unexpectedly touching in it. A man who knows how to care. And does so quietly.

  I definitely liked him.

  I even caught myself looking out the window more often than usual—as if I might see him by chance, just like that, between the snowdrifts and the gray sky. But the street was empty. The snow had piled up thick—dense, heavy, real winter snow.

  I sighed and put on my jacket.

  It was time to shovel.

  The snow crunched under the shovel, resisted heavily. I worked slowly, not rushing, when I noticed Amanda Fox. She was clearing her area too, but sharply, nervously. Several times she stopped, looked in my direction, then turned away. Her gaze was strange—assessing, gripping.

  Then she walked over to the pole and fussed again with that same notice—about rats. Pressed it, straightened it, fastened it more securely, as if something important depended on it.

  "So?" she called out, not coming close. "That... repeller of yours—does it work?"

  I leaned on the shovel.

  "Yes," I answered. "It seems so."

  She nodded. But didn't leave right away.

  She looked at me too closely. For too long. As if trying to figure out whether I had changed. Or remembered something. Or, on the contrary, forgotten.

  "Well, that's good," she finally said. "Very good."

  But her voice wasn't reassuring.

  It was wary.

  She glanced around again—at the houses, the street, the windows—and only then returned to her snow.

  And I stood there with the shovel in my hands and a strange feeling inside.

  Later I went back home and ran a bath.

  Hot water slowly released my body—shoulders, back, knees. The tension didn't go at once, but in layers, as if I were washing away not only fatigue, but the whole strange day, the snow, the looks, the thoughts.

  And it was there, in the quiet, that a simple and right thought came.

  For Christmas, I would give Phil one of my paintings.

  Not a thing. Not something random from a store. But something lived through, carried, painted by hand. Something that can hang in a home and be lived with.

  And Jo-Jo and Leah too—a painting for their home. For their peace, their warmth. That's much better than any packaged nonsense.

  Alexander...

  I lingered on that name a little longer.

  I don't know.

  For him—I'll think about it.

  The water lapped softly, steam rose toward the ceiling, and for the first time in a long while there was no rush inside me. Only a gentle pause. And the feeling that some decisions will come on their own—when it is time.