Hunger hit suddenly—sharp, almost painful, as if my body had abruptly remembered that it was alive. Not an abstract I could eat, but a dense, physical emptiness beneath my ribs.

  I didn’t even have time to say anything.

  The vines at the entrance parted again—and Wanda stepped in. Calm, focused, just as precise as before. And behind her—another.

  I understood immediately: a Pteroserus.

  But completely different.

  She was tall. Much taller than Wanda. Broad, powerful, carrying that rare bodily certainty of a being accustomed to space adjusting around her. On her head—a vivid raspberry crest, bright as a stroke of paint on a gray canvas. On her beak—glasses. Real ones. Slightly ridiculous. Entirely earthly.

  No robe. No cap.

  Behind her—folded white wings.

  And suddenly everything clicked.

  I looked at Wanda. At her back. At the way the line beneath the fabric shifted when she moved her shoulders.

  It hadn’t been a hump.

  It had been wings.

  Carefully folded. Hidden.

  The tall Pteroserus stepped forward and studied me—measuring, attentive, but not cold.

  “Hello, Molly,” she said. Her voice was low, confident, alive. “My name is Gunya.”

  In her hand she held a small transparent bowl filled with a bluish liquid. The color was bright.

  “Please drink,” Gunya said calmly. “It will help your body catch up with your memory.”

  She offered it to me.

  “And in ten minutes, lunch will be served.”

  Pi-Pu instantly perked up. His yellow eyes flared, his tail flicked. He sniffed the air and squeaked softly—he clearly understood: food was coming.

  I took the bowl, still slightly stunned, and drank.

  The liquid was cool, faintly sweet, with a barely perceptible bitterness. It didn’t burn or frighten—it seemed to settle exactly where it needed to.

  I didn’t even notice when the tension in my stomach softened.

  A few minutes later, the air shifted. It grew denser, more aromatic. Somewhere beyond the green partition came the soft roll of wheels—quiet, almost ceremonial.

  Then they brought it in.

  A table.

  A real wheeled table—broad, steady, like a small celebration that had decided to come to me on its own. Another beaked creature rolled it in and positioned it beside me.

  I froze.

  Oh, what a lunch it was.

  Lids lifted one by one, and with each movement an entirely new world revealed itself.

  On the first tier—deep bowls of steaming soups. One was clear and golden, with paper-thin slices of something like ginger, but carrying the scent of meadow herbs and warmth. The other—thick, creamy, the color of clarified milk, flecked with green and tender pieces that melted before I fully tasted them.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then small plates, arranged like musical notes.

  Thin slices of fish, pearlescent, spiraled elegantly, dusted with salt crystals that shimmered like frost. Beside them—a sauce the color of sunset: sweet, sharp, finishing with a surprising coolness.

  Vegetables too—but unlike any I had seen. Crisp, juicy, with flavors that shifted on the tongue: sweetness first, then a gentle acidity.

  Desserts stood separately.

  Airy, almost weightless. Something like mousse, yet denser, layered translucently. Light passed through them; they seemed to glow from within. Fruits cut with surgical precision—each piece like a jewel.

  And the drinks.

  Oh, the drinks.

  Tall glasses of cocktails in every shade—from pale pink to deep blue. One lightly smoked, another sparkled with fine bubbles, a third garnished with a delicate twig bearing tiny white flowers.

  I sipped one—and the taste felt like someone had blended summer, evening, and the sensation of safety.

  Pi-Pu settled beside me with complete seriousness. He sniffed, nudged, received small pieces, and ate with focused happiness, as if this were his most important mission. Occasionally he squeaked in delight.

  I ate slowly. Almost reverently.

  Each flavor was precise. Intentional. Nothing excessive. Everything felt designed for that fragile moment when a person has just survived the impossible and is learning to trust the world again.

  At one point I caught myself thinking:

  If this is a dream—let it last.

  After lunch, the table was wheeled away just as quietly and ceremoniously.

  Wanda approached and smiled gently.

  “I’ll show you your rooms,” she said.

  She spoke calmly, without pressure.

  “Your house is fine,” she added, answering my unspoken question. “It’s locked. Alexander took care of it.”

  We walked down a corridor—if it could even be called that. Everything was immersed in greenery. Walls, ceiling, arches—plants everywhere, but not chaotic; intentional, like an expensive winter garden. Leaves whispered softly, water dripped somewhere, the light was diffused and warm.

  I tried to understand where I was.

  An apartment? A house?

  We entered a bedroom—bright, warm, with a large bed and a neatly folded throw. Then a living room. A separate kitchen. A bathroom with a jacuzzi. A separate toilet. Everything decorated for Christmas: garlands, branches, candles, warm light. Not extravagant—cozy. Domestic.

  Everything was here.

  Everything one could possibly need.

  I stopped.

  “Wanda… where am I?”

  “In Phil’s house,” she replied.

  I blinked in confusion.

  “In Phil’s house? I’ve never seen anything like this there.”

  Wanda nodded, as if expecting it.

  “The house was expanded,” she said simply. “Alexander will explain.”

  Expanded?

  How do you expand a house?

  But Wanda had already quietly excused herself and disappeared as softly as she had arrived.

  I stood alone in the space, still unsure if it was real.

  Then I went to the bathroom.

  Everything was there—towels, cosmetics, a comb, clothes exactly my size, a robe. As if someone had thought about me carefully in advance. I washed, changed, and with each movement the unreality retreated slightly.

  In the living room, on a small table, stood a vase of cut flirus flowers. Their petals glowed with that same inner light that calmed something deep inside me.

  I sat on the couch.

  Pi-Pu settled beside me, dignified and focused for a few seconds, then yawned wide, revealing his orange tongue, and burrowed into the blanket, leaving only the tip of his tail visible. Within moments, he was softly snoring.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “May I?” Alexander’s voice.

  He entered wearing that familiar expression—joy without haste, without anxiety. As if he had simply come home and found me safe.

  “Well?” he asked. “Was lunch good?”

  He looked around.

  “Do you like it here? Is it comfortable?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you. It’s very cozy.”

  He smiled faintly.

  “If you need anything—tell Wanda. Anything at all. Even if it seems foolish.”

  Then more seriously:

  “Your house is locked. Everything is in place.”

  “And… if you want, we can go there together later.”

  “I would like that,” I answered immediately.

  He nodded, as though that was exactly what he expected.

  “Alexander… Wanda said Phil’s house was expanded.

  How?”

  He studied me.

  “I see you have energy,” he said. “Good.”

  He stepped closer and took my hand.

  Warm. Steady.

  “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  We stepped out of the living room.

  And I stopped.

  Because there was no corridor anymore.

  There was space.

  Enormous.

  The ceilings soared so high I couldn’t immediately see where they ended. Translucent—faintly matte, as if made of both light and glass. Above, shadows of leaves drifted, reflections of water shimmered, soft lights flickered among garlands.

  It was a greenhouse.

  No.

  More than a greenhouse.

  Glass staircases extended into the distance. Between them—small islands with sofas, tables, gentle lighting. Plants grew everywhere: ancient, towering, delicate, flowering, cascading in vines.

  I noticed movement.

  “Birds?” I asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Alexander replied. “Some.”

  Everything was decorated for Christmas, but differently—lights woven into branches, ornaments suspended between leaves, reflections dancing in water.

  We walked.

  I kept turning around, unable to believe my eyes.

  “Alexander… this is not Phil’s house.”

  He smiled.

  “We’re going to Phil,” he said calmly.

  “That’s impossible. His house is small. Ordinary. With a creaking door and—”

  “And this is also his house,” he interrupted gently.

  “How?”

  He squeezed my hand slightly.

  “Some houses are larger inside than outside.”

  A pause.

  “Especially when they have something to protect.”

  We continued.

  Behind a real waterfall—cold, clear water spilling into a pond with exotic fish—there was an elevator.

  Transparent from the outside. Glass. Weightless.

  We stepped inside. The doors closed silently.

  Immediately the walls transformed.

  Floral illustrations began appearing and fading—painted in living color. Flowers, leaves, vines, seeds, blooming buds. None repeated. Each lived for a few seconds before yielding to the next.

  The elevator moved soundlessly. I felt no ascent, no descent—only motion, as if space itself chose where to carry us.

  Alexander never released my hand.

  The doors opened.

  And I froze.

  Before me stretched jungle—not earthly jungle. The leaves were pink and pale green, some pearlescent, glowing softly along their veins. Vines hung in heavy waves, flowers opened slowly as if breathing. The air was warm, thick, sweet—smelling of fruit and rain.

  “This is…” I couldn’t finish.

  Alexander smiled—truly smiled.

  “This is Phil’s zone,” he said. “And the little Lactimol’s.”

  He spoke without grandeur, as if naming an ordinary room.

  “Phil is very fond of pink right now,” he added. “We noticed immediately. The Pteroseruses adjust everything to keep him comfortable. Calm. Happy.”

  He looked at the jungle carefully.

  “It benefits the Lactimol greatly.”

  I swallowed.

  “Phil… does he know?”

  Alexander didn’t answer at once. We took a few steps forward. Somewhere deeper in the foliage water rippled softly.

  “He is in a special state,” Alexander said at last. “He feels the world differently. Colors. Scents. The mood of space. His body knows. His consciousness does not.”

  He looked at me.

  “No, Molly. He doesn’t know he’s pregnant.”