I wasn't born here, but it's the best home I've ever known.
MR. MOUSE POV
Warmth seeps through the floorboards at night, and the kitchen always smells like butter. It's not much - a small hollow behind the pantry - but I've made it cozy with a shred of sock and a dried leaf that smells faintly of mint. I sleep curled up inside, dreaming of leftover cookie crumbs and occasional drop of peanut butter.
Life used to be simpler when no one else lived here. But some days back, everything changed. A human moved in.
I smelled her before I saw her.
She came in carrying too much. Boxes, bags, and the weight of whatever she left behind. Her steps were hesitant but determined.
I stay hidden at first, curled behind the refrigerator where the warmth hummed low and the crumbs were predictable. I had made a life here - one of quiet dignity. The kind that doesn't ask for much: a thread of cheese from the neighbour's now and then, the soft corner of a bread crust, a place to sleep where the boots didn't stomp.
This woman, this new presence in the house, threatened all that. Not intentionally, I don't think. But by simply being there. Humans have a way of moving into places like they own them, without asking who else might already be calling it home.
For three nights, we avoided each other. She lived upstairs, opening drawers too loudly, dragging furniture across the floor like thunder. I stayed to the shadow, sticking to my routes, collecting what I could.
She was sloppy at first - boxes spilled snacks, plastic bags rustled with potential - but then came the broom. The vacuum. The scented sprays. My paradise swept clean in a single afternoon.
I watched her from my tiny peephole. She looked young, tired, and very bad at cooking.
The fourth night, she burned toast and dropped a whole slice on the floor. A miracle! I didn't even wait for her to leave the room. I darted out, grabbed a corner, dragging it under the fridge. Then she saw.
It wasn't dramatic - no shriek, no flinging of shoes or hysterics. Just a flash of wide eyes, frozen limbs. I paused too. We stared at each other, two creatures in the middle of a kitchen, equally caught off guard by the other's existence.
Then she moved.
A small gasp. A backing away. "Nope" she whispered. "Nope, nope, nope."
I ran, of course. Not out of guilt or shame, but because it's what I've learned to do. There's not much room in this world for a mouse with manners.
After that, the traps appeared.
Neatly placed in corners. Peanut butter bait. Clever designs, all of them. It was almost flattering. But I'd been through this before. I knew how to wait. Humans get impatient. They think life should bend to their will. They forget the house belongs to more than just them.
I knew how to steal bait without setting the traps off. She tried sealing my entrance, so I chewed a new one - right behind her bookshelf.
Still, I began to notice things.
She talked to herself a lot. Not always in words, sometimes just sighs - those long, heavy ones that spill into a room when no one's watching. She burned toast often. Left lights on in empty rooms. Sat on the floor like the furniture was too formal.
One evening, she came home crying. Not loud, just soft and sad, like a leaky faucet. She collapsed onto the couch with a blanket and didn't move for hours. I watched from the shadows.
Later, she left a piece of cheese in the middle of the kitchen floor.
No trap. No box. Just cheese. I watched it for hours. Circled the space in wide arcs. Smelled the air for metal. Nothing. Just a single, quiet offering.
I took it and left a sunflower seed in its place. It was all I had.
In the morning, the seed was gone.
The next night, she left a bit of cracker.
A new ritual began: food for food. Peace offerings - I started leaving small things I found- buttons, shiny twist ties, a piece of ribbon. I think she liked them.
One evening, she whispered into the air, "You're not so bad."
I twitched my whiskers in agreement.
Now we share the house. She cooks, I clean crumbs. She no longer searched the corners with suspicion. I no longer scurried with panic.
She never named me. I never needed her to.
But I think, in her own way, she began to look for me. And in mine, I began to trust her.
Not everything has to be solved. Sometimes, it's enough to know you're not alone.
Even if you speak different language.
Even if one of you is just looking for crumbs.
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