It’s a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where the world seems to exhale, and everything moves a little slower. I’m on the patio, a cup of coffee warming my hands, and the soft crumble of a lemon cookie on my lips. The air smells of fresh beginnings, and I watch as the day unfolds in dreamlike layers, a blend of reality and something softer, like the edge of a thought not yet formed.
A faint sound—a skitter across the table—catches my attention. I glance up to find a salamander, here one moment, gone the next, vanishing into the space between moments. I smile, more curious than surprised, and return to my book, but the words seem to drift, mingling with the world around me. It’s one of those mornings where the line between the pages and reality blurs, and the rhythm of life slows to meet the tempo of my daydreams.
I sip my coffee and take another bite of cookie, letting the morning wash over me in waves—sunlight through leaves, the soft hum of a bee nearby, the warmth of the moment held in stillness. There’s a simplicity here, a kind of quiet magic that asks nothing but your presence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something unusual. The salamander has returned. But now, he’s on the chair beside me, moving in small circles as though performing some secret dance. I watch, entranced by the grace of his tiny movements, when he suddenly begins to change.
Stretching and shifting, the salamander is no longer a salamander. A chimpanzee sits in the chair beside me now, his eyes kind and knowing. He extends a paw, and with a quiet smile, I shake it.
“Hello,” he says, his voice gentle yet clear. “My name is Erasmus. I have a story to tell you. And after that, I’ll need your help.”
I can’t help but chuckle, the surreal merging so effortlessly with the ordinary. “Would you like some coffee, Erasmus?” I offer.
“No, thank you,” he replies, his smile warm and steady. “But one of those lemon cookies would be divine.”
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