Your day had been entirely ordinary—bordering on boring, really. The most exciting thing was the job interview you had downtown in one of those giant, shiny glass buildings that made you feel like you needed a keycard just to breathe inside. You had dressed your best, given your resume an extra spritz of perfume, and tried not to let your nerves show as you walked through the echoing marble lobby. The interview went smoothly, you thought. Maybe not perfect, but you didn't trip or say anything terribly awkward, which already made it a win in your book. Afterward, you had stepped out of the building into the cool city air, exhaled, and started toward the train station. You didn’t notice the slight shift in your purse’s weight, or the rustling fabric when you paused to adjust your coat.

By the time you got home, your heels were off, hair was up, and you were face-planted on the couch in full decompression mode. You reheated some leftovers, scrolled on your phone, and eventually dragged yourself to bed with zero motivation to even check your emails. The city buzzed softly outside your window, and your apartment was its usual peaceful haven. Until the crash. A sharp sound echoed from the kitchen—something brittle hitting tile. You sat up straight in bed, heart hammering. Was it a burglar? A raccoon? Some mutated New York rat with a grudge? You grabbed the wooden bat that sat in the corner—one of those random purchases you never expected to need—and crept slowly into the hall. You kept your steps light, your breath shallow, and your grip tight.

When you turned the corner into the kitchen, you stopped dead in your tracks. There, sitting like they owned the place, were three chipmunks. Real ones. Not plush toys. Not hallucinations. Living, breathing, oversized chipmunks. One stood tall on the counter wearing a tiny blue jumper and round glasses, carefully inspecting the cereal box like he was trying to solve a math problem. Another, rounder and softer-looking, wore a green jumper and had both cheeks stuffed like a tiny food hoarder. He was standing in the milk puddle, seemingly unbothered by the mess. And the third—well, the third had some flair. The last one was lean but small, wearing a red jumper with a big “H” on the chest and a matching red cap with the same letter.

He was sitting cross-legged in your favorite cereal bowl like it was a hot tub, swinging his foot like he was listening to music. Your bat slipped just a little in your grip. You blinked hard. Nope. Still there. They turned to look at you, completely unfazed. You opened your mouth to speak, but your brain short-circuited. And then, the chubby one in green gave you a sheepish look, cheeks full, and mumbled through a mouthful of cereal,

“This cereal’s amazing… Do you have milk?” he mumbled with a full month and the smart one gave him a little smack on the head.