We walked on.

  Soft carpets lay beneath our feet — thick, tender, blush-pink, as if woven from warm air itself. Moisture dripped from the plants: clear drops fell from leaves, from vines, from petals — yet the carpets remained perfectly dry and immaculate, as though the water simply refused to touch them.

  It was strange — and unexpectedly pleasant.

  Along the walls I noticed countless mirrors. Large and small. Oval, elongated, round — each set in intricate, beautiful frames.

  And then—

  Tap-tap-tap.

  With squeals, chirps, and delighted chaos, several shi-moo burst around the corner.

  Small, fluffy, black — all wearing little hats. One striped, one with a pom-pom, another far too big and slipping over one eye. They chased one another, collided, tumbled, bounced, one rolled across the carpet while another tried to look terrifying.

  I couldn't help smiling.

  "This is..." I began.

  "Enough," Alexander said firmly.

  He didn't raise his voice, yet the shi-moo froze instantly. One stood mid-step with a lifted paw. Another remained open-mouthed.

  "No loitering," Alexander said. "Go study."

  The shi-moo exchanged glances, sighed almost in unison, and shuffled off — still nudging one another and snickering as they disappeared.

  I looked at Alexander.

  "Study?.."

  "Of course," he replied calmly. "They're young. The ones who emerged from the Cuna. Along with Pi-Pu."

  There was no irritation in his tone — only the steady patience of someone who understood how much energy lived inside such creatures.

  "They still have much to learn. Control. Attention. Sensitivity... responsibility."

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  He paused.

  And smiled faintly.

  "Though one of them is already showing promise."

  He glanced at me and winked.

  I knew exactly who he meant.

  We walked on — and stopped.

  There was no door.

  None at all.

  Before us stood a waterfall.

  Not decorative. Not symbolic. A real, dense, living curtain of water pouring down in a flawless transparent wall. It murmured softly, tuned somehow to the human ear.

  I instinctively slowed.

  "Just walk," Alexander said quietly. "It lets through those it should."

  As we approached, the impossible happened: the waterfall parted. The water shifted aside as if gently drawn back by invisible hands, opening a passage between its streams. No spray. No chill. Only humid air and the faint scent of flowers.

  We stepped inside.

  Phil's room.

  I stopped.

  It felt as though someone had taken pink cotton candy and transformed it into space. Everything was airy, soft, almost lightly suspended. The walls were not quite walls, but flowing gradients of color. The ceiling high and luminous, like a quiet cloud. The light diffused and tender — not a single harsh shadow.

  A massive bed stood in the center — luxurious, drowning in pillows and blankets.

  Phil was there.

  Calm. Remarkably relaxed.

  He reclined against cushions, watching a series on an enormous screen that covered nearly the entire opposite wall. The screen seemed to float in midair. In his hand was a fruit — violet, matte-skinned, completely unfamiliar. He bit into it with obvious pleasure and looked... deeply content.

  Beside him, on a crystal table, stood a tray. On it lay fruits I had never seen before: elongated, translucent, shimmering as though made of light and juice at once. Some glowed faintly. Others exhaled a subtle aroma — sweet, fresh.

  In the corner I noticed a Pteroserus.

  A woman. Calm, focused. She folded towels carefully, movement after movement, perfectly aligned — as if performing a sacred ritual. She did not look at us. She did not even turn.

  Alexander leaned closer and whispered:

  "Phil does not see entities."

  I looked at him.

  "No one," he clarified. "Not Pteroseruses. Not shi-moo. No one."

  A pause.

  "Only seruses. Like me."

  I slowly returned my gaze to Phil.

  He smiled at the screen, took another bite of the violet fruit, and sighed with satisfaction — completely unaware of how many beings were working tirelessly to preserve this fragile moment of his peace.

  The room breathed care.

  We greeted him.

  Phil brightened instantly when he saw us and smiled broadly, warmly.

  "Molly!" he said. "How are you?"

  He lifted the tray. "Want some fruit? Try this one — it's especially... mm."

  "Thank you," I smiled. "I'm fine."

  He looked... different. Covered with a blanket, yet it was clear that the lower half of his body was very large. Like someone who lay constantly in warmth and denied himself nothing. My gaze lingered.

  "How do you feel?" I asked gently.

  "Wonderful," Phil answered without hesitation. "Truly wonderful. I haven't felt this good in ages."

  We chatted about trivial things — the show, small jokes. He was relaxed, content, as if floating in his own sheltered sphere.

  And then he said it.

  "So. Tonight — dinner. You promised you'd come."

  He grinned wider. "Jo-Jo and his wife are coming too. A real family evening. Christmas should be warm, right?"

  Christmas.

  The word struck unexpectedly.

  I slowly turned my head toward Alexander.

  He looked... too calm.

  Christmas? Already?

  "It's going to be a wonderful Christmas," Phil continued confidently. "See you at dinner."

  We said goodbye. He returned to his show, bit into the violet fruit, and didn't notice when we left.

  The waterfall closed behind us.

  I stopped abruptly.

  "Wait," I said, turning to Alexander. "What Christmas? What dinner?!"

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "I'm not ready," I rushed. "I don't even understand what's happening in my house right now. I don't know if everything's in place. I didn't prepare. I—"

  I exhaled. "Please. Let's go to my place. Now."

  He was about to respond — I could see it.

  But I looked at him too insistently.

  He sighed and nodded.

  "All right. Let's go."

  We returned to my rooms.

  My coat was there. My boots. The familiar scent of winter and fabric. I dressed quickly, as though afraid someone might change their mind and stop me.

  Alexander waited silently.

  When I was ready, he opened the exit.

  "Let's go," he said.

  And we moved toward the door — back to my house, my street, and the life that suddenly felt disturbingly fragile.