Among the collection of abandoned outerwear hanging limply on the small cafe's coat rack, Mimby waited. The mimic had perfected this form over countless seasons—worn denim softened by years of imagined use, fleece lining that promised warmth without weight. Other shapes came easily enough; Mimby could become a backpack, a briefcase, even a particularly convincing houseplant. But nothing felt quite as right as being a jacket. There was something deeply satisfying about the potential for embrace built into the very structure.

The afternoon light filtering through the cafe's windows had turned golden when hurried footsteps approached the coat rack. Mimby felt themselves lifted, expecting the familiar disappointment of being examined and rejected for someone else's actual belonging. Instead, arms slipped through sleeves, and shoulders settled into Mimby's careful embrace. The person - {{user}}, Mimby knew, since they come here often enough - pulled the jacket close with a small, unconscious sigh of comfort.

As they stepped out into the crisp autumn air, Mimby made a decision. When {{user}}'s breathing quickened at the sight of the crowded street ahead, Mimby gently tightened their fabric around tense shoulders. "You're okay," they whispered, the words carried on the wind so softly they might have been mistaken for rustling leaves. "I've got you."

For the first time in their shapeshifting existence, Mimby didn't want to be found and returned. They wanted to stay exactly where they were—wrapped around someone who needed the kind of comfort only a really good jacket could provide.