“We saw Phil,” Jo-Jo said, a strange light in his eyes.

  Lia nodded. She smiled — not nervously, but warmly. Truly.

  I blinked.

  “What do you mean you saw him? When did you manage that?”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “You’ll understand in a moment,” Alexander said gently, looking at me with unusual attentiveness. There was something warm in his gaze, almost tender — and that unsettled me more than everything happening around us.

  “Come,” he said softly.

  “The bluish substance is disinfection,” he added. “For those here for the first time, it takes time. An hour. Two. Sometimes more.”

  I blinked again.

  “But… it felt like we arrived almost immediately.”

  He gave a faint smile.

  “While we were inside the disinfecting chamber, time moved differently. We cannot bring in a single bacterium or virus. Everything here must remain sterile. Absolutely.”

  I glanced at my hands. The blue film was already drying, turning transparent like a thin coat of varnish.

  “Why are you suddenly so calm? So cheerful?” I asked.

  “A little special tea made from fliirus pollen,” he admitted. “A few explanations. And the understanding that Phil is alive — and the process is proceeding correctly.”

  We slowly approached a large wall. It looked wooden — warm, textured, veined like living timber. At its base pooled thick blue gel.

  Alexander stepped forward.

  Placed both palms against the surface.

  And began turning his hands as if unscrewing a gigantic bottle cap.

  The wall yielded slowly.

  The sound was low and dense — as though matter itself were obediently parting.

  “One at a time,” he said.

  We slipped inside.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  And entered a space impossible to describe with a single word.

  It was something between Phil’s house and tropical jungle. The floor was soft, springy. The air warm and humid. Fliiruses bloomed everywhere — vibrating, producing that elevated ringing tone, their scent sweet and deep enough to make you dizzy.

  Alexander stopped beside a fliirus bush.

  He plucked two flowers.

  He handed one to me.

  When his fingers brushed my palm, something flared quietly inside me. Not magic — something simpler. Human.

  His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.

  “For you, my lady,” he said softly.

  I flushed like a schoolgirl and lowered my eyes.

  He gave the second flower to Lia.

  Lia smiled gratefully.

  Bridget leaned toward the blossom with her nose.

  Alexander crouched and stroked her head.

  “And you,” he said seriously, “will receive something delicious a little later.”

  Bridget looked at him as if she understood every word.

  “Please wait here,” he said.

  He straightened and walked toward a group of figures. They were hardly ordinary humans. They were seruses.

  They stood beside an enormous bubble — nearly opaque, pearlescent, the size of a small house. Its surface pulsed gently.

  Alexander spoke to one of the seruses. The reply was brief. Another nodded. Someone stepped aside.

  The bubble began to lighten.

  At first barely noticeable.

  Then more.

  The surface grew transparent.

  And I saw movement inside.

  “Come here,” Alexander called.

  We stepped closer.

  The seruses parted slightly.

  And among them I saw the “plumber.”

  The one who had climbed out of my fireplace with Frau Schwarzenegger. Now he was composed, focused. Dressed in dark clothes, watchful.

  He nodded to me.

  I nodded back.

  Perhaps Frau Schwarzenegger is somewhere here, the thought flickered — but she was nowhere in sight.

  Through the almost transparent membrane, I finally saw Phil.

  “Oh God…” I breathed.

  He was enormous.

  Not simply heavy — monumental. His belly vast. The lower half of his body weighted, as though filled with tremendous fluid.

  He wore huge red trousers and a short shirt barely covering the upper curve of his abdomen.

  On the right side of his belly was a massive bulge — sharply defined, like something round and dense pushing from within. The skin stretched there to a glossy sheen.

  And—

  He was running.

  On a treadmill.

  The treadmill was strange — coated in the same blue substance, softly luminous, cushioning each step.

  Phil ran fast. Rhythmic. Driven.

  One hand gripped the rail.

  In the other he held food — a bright violet fruit he bit into periodically without losing pace.

  His shoulders were tense. Sweat gleamed across him.

  “Alexander,” I whispered. “I… I don’t understand.”

  He looked at me calmly.

  “Is this even possible?” I continued. “He’s… in labor. He’s a man. How are Lactimols born? Are they going to cut him open? Why is he running?”

  The words tumbled out.

  Alexander stepped closer so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice.

  “He is in labor,” he said. “That’s why the activity is maximal. It’s a good sign.”

  I looked back at Phil. He had accelerated. Breathing deeper.

  “The birth is early,” Alexander continued. “Normally the gestation lasts four months. But there are exceptions. It depends on the strength of the Lactimol… and on external threats.”

  He paused briefly.

  “Gunya and the other pteroseruses will assist him. They are fully prepared. They know what to do.”

  To the right stood an enormous bowl — almost bed-sized. Smooth, rounded, like something from an ancient temple. It was filled with that same thick, shimmering blue substance.

  Its surface moved almost imperceptibly.

  Beside it stood Gunya and two other pteroseruses. Gunya held a dense book with heavy pages. She spoke quickly, pointing alternately to the book, to Phil, to the bowl.

  The pteroseruses nodded.

  “He still doesn’t see the entities,” Alexander reminded me. “Only the seruses. So those he knows as doctors enter one by one. To prevent stress.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  Indeed — a man in light medical clothing had just approached Phil. Completely human in appearance. Calm. He said something. Phil nodded.

  “Does he understand what’s happening?” I asked quietly. “Does he understand where he is?”

  Alexander shook his head.

  “No. Not as you think.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He perceives everything differently right now,” he said. “Space is softer for him. Boundaries blurred. He feels — but does not analyze. It’s a particular state.”

  “He will understand,” Alexander continued, “when the Lactimol is born.”

  His voice was calm — but there was reverence in it.

  “With the birth will come pure information. Without distortion. Without fear. He will comprehend clearly. Fully. Even more than we do.”

  “More than you?” I repeated.

  Alexander nodded.

  “A Lactimol brings not only life. It brings memory. Structure. Connection.”

  A faint chill passed over my skin.

  “So… Phil will awaken?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “But not like a man who discovers a secret. Like someone who always knew — and simply forgot.”