For a brief moment, I forgot why I had come downstairs. The labels, the jars, the housework—it all vanished from my mind. Slowly, I crouched down, careful not to let the light shine on their little faces. Their tiny bodies huddled together, seeking warmth, and something about that small circle tugged at my heart in the tenderest way. It felt as though I had opened the wrong door and stepped into a small, private world that existed quietly and undisturbed, without us. I whispered, “Where did you come from?” even though I knew they couldn’t answer.
Then I noticed movement
on the wall. Something white stirred in the shadow of an old basket. My heart leapt, and I nearly dropped my phone. A small, furry face emerged, with dark, round eyes and a brown patch on its nose. In the dim light—and in my sudden alarm—my first thought was, “Oh no, a mouse.” I froze, not wanting to startle it. It didn’t run away. It simply stood there, calm and alert, looking at me as if trying to figure out whether I was a friend or someone it didn’t understand.
