Both of them looked at me at the same time.

  And at the same time, they said:

  "Good evening, Miss Shrimp."

  Alexander turned to me sharply.

  "I have to leave immediately," he said. Fast. Precise. No explanations. "Right now."

  I opened my mouth, but he was already continuing:

  "You stay in the house. You don't go anywhere. Under no circumstances."

  He looked straight into my eyes. "You are safe here."

  "But—" I began.

  "I'll be back closer to evening," he interrupted, softer now but just as firm.

  Frau Schwarzenegger straightened up. The plumber—no, not a plumber anymore—brushed soot from his sleeves.

  The three of them stepped into a circle.

  Silently, they raised their hands.

  Three fists met in the air.

  For a fraction of a second, it felt as if space swallowed all sound—

  and then there was a bang.

  Sharp. Dense.

  Warm ash burst into my face. It fell from the ceiling, swirled in the air, settled on the floor, on the Christmas tree, along the edge of the couch.

  And they were gone.

  Just—empty.

  I stood there, covered in ash in the middle of my living room, unable to move, staring at the place where they had been seconds before.

  "What..." I exhaled, but the word never formed.

  The house was intact.

  I was alive.

  And I had just been left alone—in a house that, as it turned out, knew far too much.

  Someone sneezed.

  Sharp. Very close.

  I jumped so violently that ash slid from my shoulders onto the floor. For a second I thought they had come back. That someone black would crawl out of the fireplace again.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  But no.

  By the couch, almost blending into the shadow, sat Pi-Pu.

  Small. Sweet. His enormous knitted hat slipping to one side. He sneezed again, blinked his yellow eyes apologetically, and looked at me as if sorry for the noise.

  "God..." I breathed.

  My legs finally obeyed me. I walked over, bent down, and carefully picked him up. He was warm. Solid. Pi-Pu pressed into me immediately, burying his face in my sweater, vibrating softly like a tiny motor inside him.

  I sat on the couch, ash still on my clothes, and stroked his back. Slowly. The same motion, again and again. I needed to come back to myself. Just sit. Breathe. Make sure the floor was real. That the couch wouldn't disappear. That Pi-Pu wouldn't dissolve like they had.

  "It's fine..." I said, more to myself than to him. "It's fine. It's Christmas Eve. Just... a very strange day."

  After a while—I didn't know how many minutes—my breathing steadied. My hands stopped trembling. I set Pi-Pu down gently and stood up.

  In the studio, reality awaited me—the kind I knew how to handle.

  Paintings.

  I switched on the light and went straight to the canvas with the heron. I ran my fingers along the edge. The paint was completely dry. The heron looked calm, composed—as if it knew more than birds were meant to know. The flower beside it glowed from within exactly as I had intended.

  I needed to pack three paintings urgently. But suddenly I realized that if I didn't stop for one minute—I would fall apart.

  "Tea," I decided. "First tea."

  Pi-Pu and I went to the kitchen. He trotted beside me, businesslike now, no fear. I put the kettle on and brewed green tea with jasmine. Took out a cup. Chocolates.

  Chocolate ones.

  Pi-Pu brightened instantly. I placed one in front of him. Then another. He ate carefully, seriously, like a true gourmet, looking absurdly solemn.

  I drank my tea and tried not to think.

  Not about the Gruns.

  Not about the fireplace.

  Not about someone being killed...

  Because if I started, I might truly lose my mind.

  When the tea was finished, I cleaned the ash around the fireplace and in the room, then climbed up on the cabinet and found wrapping paper. Red. With golden patterns.

  "Perfect," I said.

  I spread the paper across the studio floor, laid down the first painting, and began wrapping it carefully. Pi-Pu sat nearby at first, watching every movement, tilting his head left and right as if studying a sacred ritual.

  Then he yawned.

  Once.

  Twice.

  He crawled under the blanket in the corner, curled into a ball—and within a minute he was asleep. Quiet. Soft, cozy breathing.

  I kept wrapping.

  The phone rang.

  I flinched—as if the sound had come from inside my head rather than outside. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, as though remembering what one does with such an object.

  Jo-Jo.

  I answered.

  "Molly, hi!" he said cheerfully. "We'll come around six-thirty this evening. Phil invited us over for seven."

  I glanced at the clock automatically.

  "Hi! Okay."

  "Leah and I were thinking..." he hesitated for a second. "Maybe we could stop by your place first? And then go together to Phil and Alexander's."

  "Of course," I said immediately. "Let's do that."

  "Great!" he brightened. "Six-thirty at yours."

  We hung up.

  I set the phone down and closed my eyes for a moment.

  Absurd.

  Christmas—and all this.

  As if someone had carefully swapped out my reality while I blinked, and now I stood with one foot in my old, familiar world and the other in something new, strange, previously unknown.

  I tried to gather it all into one coherent line—and failed. My thoughts spread like wet paper. A dull ache started behind my eyes.

  "Stop," I said aloud. "Enough."

  I finished wrapping the paintings, smoothed the edges, checked the ribbons. Ready.

  And then I remembered.

  Arrive empty-handed?

  Even if Phil had said he'd handle everything—that's not done. Especially at Christmas.

  "Cake," I decided. "Simple. Fast. Reliable."

  My head cleared slightly, as if my brain gratefully seized upon a familiar earthly algorithm.

  I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  Eggs—yes.

  Sour cream—yes.

  Flour—yes.

  Sugar—yes.

  Cocoa—yes.

  Bananas—overripe, perfect.

  Chocolate sponge.

  Sour cream frosting.

  Bananas.

  I turned on the oven, took out a bowl and whisk, measured ingredients. My hands worked on their own, and there was something saving in that. Eggs whipped. Sugar dissolved. The mixture grew smooth and warm.

  Pi-Pu came into the kitchen, climbed onto a chair, and watched carefully, head slightly tilted.

  "This isn't for you," I said sternly but not unkindly. "This is for people. Almost."

  The scent of cocoa filled the kitchen. The oven hummed softly. For a few minutes the world was simple again: mix, heat, wait—result.

  I placed the pan inside and closed the door.

  "There," I said quietly. "At least something today will be normal."

  After a while the sponge was ready.

  I took it out—level, warm, springy. Let it cool slightly, sliced it into layers carefully, unhurriedly, as if rushing would ruin everything.

  The frosting was perfect—thick but soft. I spread it generously over the first layer, arranged banana slices, placed the second layer, more cream, more bananas. On top—another smooth layer of cream. A little cocoa. A sprinkle of chocolate shavings.

  I stepped back and looked.

  "Perfect," I told myself. "Very good."

  Pi-Pu had been watching with utmost concentration. When I began scraping the last of the cream from the bowl, he perked up completely.

  "This you can have," I said, placing the bowl on the floor.

  He licked the leftover cream with the solemnity of someone receiving the highest award for patience. Then licked his lips and sighed in satisfaction.

  "But the cake—no," I said sternly, bending toward him. "Don't even think about it."

  He looked at me with his yellow eyes, then at the cake, then back at me—and pretended he had no idea what I meant.

  I didn't believe him.

  So, not taking chances, I carefully covered the cake, opened the refrigerator, and placed it inside.

  "For safety," I muttered, closing the door.

  Pi-Pu sighed again—this time with a tragic undertone—and retreated under the blanket.