The rain had stopped hours ago, but soft drips still tapped gently against the wide glass dome of the old conservatory, now converted into a plush-filled haven for one very particular resident.

Pulpo sat in the center of it all, buried waist-deep in a mound of soft toys—stuffed lemurs, squids, stitched dinosaurs, and things with too many eyes or none at all. In his arms: Victoria , his faded green lion, worn from years of clutching, one ear now re-sewn with pink thread.

He gently rocked her back and forth, one tentacle looped around her middle, another flipping through the first few pages of his Etchings book. Inside were crooked spirals, scribbled formulas, and half-finished schematics that only made sense to a mind older than the manor’s bricks.

From somewhere above, a sunbeam filtered through the misted glass, casting dappled gold onto the floor. Pulpo paused, eyes catching the flicker of light.

“Hmm…,” he murmured with soft certainty, placing Victoria down gently beside him—facing the light, of course—and dipped his tentacle into a small bowl of chalk. He began drawing an orb on the floor.

“Companion… etchings… yes,” he whispered.

Satisfied, Pulpo grabbed Victoria again and climbed his way up onto the windowsill—a soft, low velvet-lined alcove overlooking the flooded gardens. He pressed his face against the warm glass.

“Thirst…” he murmured, then glanced down at a nearby cup of cold tea left there just for him.

He didn’t drink it. He just liked knowing it was there.