Suddenly, the thought of being alone became unbearable.

  The house, which had felt warm and alive just hours ago, now seemed distant—withdrawn.

  I didn't go upstairs to the bedroom.

  The living room felt safer. Lower. Closer to the ground.

  I took a blanket and wrapped myself in it right there on the couch—over my head, the way children hide from the dark even though they know it doesn't actually help. I tucked my legs in, pulled my knees to my chest. My heart refused to calm down for a long time, beating dully, unevenly.

  I listened.

  To the house.

  To the street.

  To myself.

  Every creak sounded like a footstep. Every rustle—like someone's breathing. I kept telling myself it was just exhaustion, nerves, too much strangeness over the past few days.

  But my body didn't believe words.

  The house felt cold. Or maybe that was just me. I was shivering even though the blanket was warm. I clutched it tighter, as if that could somehow hold reality in place.

  Sleep came slowly. In fragments. I kept sinking under, then jolting back up again, as if I was afraid to let go of consciousness completely. My thoughts tangled, clung to one another, and again and again returned to that voice. To the words I had found. To the sense that it hadn't been a warning or a threat.

  It was something else.

  And then—almost imperceptibly—the feeling changed.

  As if someone was nearby.

  An invisible presence. Warm. Soft. Extremely careful. As though someone had quietly settled beside me, taking up just enough space—exactly enough—for the fear to fade.

  Warmth spread along my back. My breathing deepened on its own. Evened out.

  There were fewer thoughts. My body stopped bracing itself. The fear receded—not abruptly, but gently, as if someone had carefully guided it aside.

  And with that feeling—of warmth, protection, and a quiet, almost familiar closeness—

  I finally fell asleep.

  I slept very deeply.

  So deeply that it felt suspicious in itself.

  For some reason, I dreamed of cotton candy—huge, pink-and-white, soft. I jumped on it like clouds. It sprang beneath me, stuck slightly to my palms, and smelled of childhood and fairs. No anxiety. No thoughts. No voices. Just that strange, almost ridiculous happiness.

  I woke up late.

  The light was no longer morning-soft but confident, fully daytime. And the first thing I realized was that I felt better. Definitely. Everything from yesterday had dulled, as if it hadn't been my day at all, but a film I'd watched in the evening—now remembered only in scattered scenes.

  I lay there a little longer.

  Rolled onto my side—and felt something bunched up beside me. Pressing. In the way.

  "Blanket," I thought lazily, and reached out.

  And immediately knew: it wasn't the blanket.

  It was a pillow.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Very fluffy. Very soft. Warm.

  And completely not mine.

  I don't own a pillow like that.

  The thought hit instantly.

  I jumped off the couch.

  Or tried to—because I got tangled in the blanket, jerked awkwardly, lost my balance, and crashed onto the floor. The air was knocked out of my lungs. For a second I just lay there, gasping, eyes wide, my mind utterly blank.

  "Wh—..." I tried to say, but only a hoarse breath came out.

  I looked back at the couch.

  The pillow...

  moved.

  "No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

  My thoughts galloped, without logic or brakes:

  A rat?

  The pillow compressed slightly again—as if something was breathing beneath it.

  I slowly scooted backward, heels scraping the floor, my heart pounding so hard it felt audible to the neighboring house.

  "What... is... that..." I whispered.

  And at that moment the pillow lifted just a little,

  and from beneath it a long red-orange tongue slid out—then disappeared again.

  I froze, staring without blinking.

  There was no panic at first. Not yet. More like a strange numbness—the kind that comes when you see something so out of place your brain refuses to name it.

  Whatever it was lay on my couch, curled into a dense, warm ball, as if it had every right to be there. The pillow slipped further, and I saw it more clearly.

  It slowly opened its eyes.

  Bright yellow. Clear. Attentive.

  It looked at me calmly. Even... lazily.

  I swallowed.

  "You... who are you?.." I whispered, not even knowing why I said it out loud.

  The creature didn't answer. And what was especially strange—it didn't even try to run. Didn't flinch. Didn't tense. As if fleeing simply wasn't on its list of possible reactions.

  I studied it.

  Black fur—thick, soft-looking. Small paws, suspiciously raccoon-like. A compact body, but not tiny.

  It had... slept with me?

  All night?

  The thought sent a chill through me.

  And suddenly I was afraid of something else entirely.

  "What if you're... carrying diseases?" I whispered.

  The creature blinked. Slowly. As if the word "diseases" mildly bored it.

  For a split second, it felt like I'd seen something like this before. Or read about it. Or dreamed it. The sensation was vague—like a fragment of a dream that vanishes the moment you try to grab it.

  I decided not to make any sudden movements.

  Very slowly, almost on tiptoe, I went to the kitchen. Every step was deliberate. I listened—half expecting it to leap after me, hiss, jump onto my back.

  Nothing.

  In the kitchen, I took a plate. Poured some water. My hands were shaking, and a few drops spilled onto the table.

  I returned to the living room and carefully placed the plate on the floor where the creature could see it.

  "Here..." I said quietly. "In case you're thirsty."

  It looked at the plate. Then at me.

  And sneezed.

  Loudly. Completely without grace.

  I flinched, but it immediately fixed me again with those same yellow eyes—perfectly satisfied, as if it had just voiced an opinion about the service.

  "...Right," I said.

  The creature yawned.

  The pillow slid a little more.

  And without taking its eyes off me, it settled in more comfortably—as if I were the guest in its house.

  I genuinely didn't know what to do.

  So I did the only thing I know how to do when the world suddenly slips out of its familiar frame: I left things as they were.

  I quietly went to the bedroom. Got dressed. Then to the bathroom—washed my face, brushed my teeth—mechanically, on autopilot, staring at my reflection and trying to fit one simple thought into my head:

  What is this thing?

  It didn't look like a rat.

  Or a marten.

  Or a ferret.

  Or anything from the category "normal animals you can Google."

  And yet...

  it looked cute. Not aggressive. Not dirty. Not sick. More like—confused.

  And very... warm.

  I should offer it something to eat, I suddenly thought—as if this were a lost cat, not an unknown creature that had slept under my blanket.

  I went back to the living room.

  But didn't enter right away.

  First, I cautiously peeked around the corner. One eye. The way children spy on something they're both afraid of and desperate to see.

  The creature was on the floor.

  It sat by the plate of water, drinking carefully—small sips, almost ceremonious. Its body trembled slightly, as if it were cold. Or scared. Or both.

  I stepped forward.

  The floor creaked.

  And instantly—it bolted.

  Fast. Sharp. Almost silent.

  In one motion it sprang onto the couch, dove under the blanket, and burrowed in.

  I froze in the middle of the room.

  "Okay..." I said very softly. "I get it. You're scared."

  The blanket didn't move.

  I went to the kitchen.

  Everything there was normal. Familiar. The table. The window. The coffee machine humming exactly the way normal machines hum in normal houses. I made myself coffee with milk, took a pack of cookies, sat down, and stared out the window as if the answer might be there.

  "An amazing creature..." I muttered.

  A rational thought arrived—almost like a lifeline:

  I should photograph it. And search by image.

  The internet knows everything. Well—almost everything.

  I froze with the mug in my hands.

  "Okay," I said out loud. "Stop."

  What if I'm losing my mind?

  Not dramatically. Not spectacularly.

  But slowly. Carefully. Bit by bit.

  Yesterday resurfaced in fragments—like scenes from a bad arthouse film:

  the street, the flash, the voice, the fall, faces, words that shouldn't exist...

  and now—a creature like a fluffy pillow that sneezes.

  "This is absurd," I said firmly. "Pure, concentrated absurdity."

  I took a sip of coffee. My hands weren't shaking. My thoughts were clear.

  Maybe I should see a doctor? flashed through my mind.

  Immediately followed by something far more realistic:

  They'd put me in a psych ward right away. Definitely.

  "Not yet," I decided, biting into a cookie. "We'll wait."

  I jumped up.

  The thought was sudden—I needed to go outside, check the mail, breathe fresh air. Right now. Before I changed my mind. While I could still pretend this was a normal morning in a normal house with no strange creatures under the blanket.

  I flung the door open without even putting on a jacket. Shoved my feet into my boots without fastening them properly and ran out onto the porch, stepping carefully—the snow was treacherous, slippery, yesterday's.

  The cold hit immediately, sobering.

  The mailbox creaked. Inside were a few letters—bills, ads, something official. Nothing unusual. The paper rustled normally, earthly. I hugged the envelopes to my chest and turned back.

  And then I noticed it.

  At first, I thought something had just gotten caught—something dark, wet, hanging from the rain gutter by the porch. I stopped. Bent down. Looked closer.

  It was fabric.

  I stepped closer and gently pulled.

  A knitted hat slid out of the pipe.

  Heavy with water, soaked through with snow and moisture, it dripped straight onto my hand. The color was strange, complex—somewhere between gray, blue, and something else.

  I froze.

  "That's strange... how did this get here?.." I murmured.

  It definitely hadn't been there yesterday.

  Kids?

  Teenagers messing around, shoving it in for a laugh. Or the wind... though no, the wind wouldn't do this.

  I looked around. The street was empty. Just snow, footprints, and silence.

  I hung the hat on the porch railing, carefully straightening it so the water could drip away.

  "I'll deal with it later," I told myself.