You are three inches tall. That has always been the whole problem. For longer than you can remember, you lived in the dark — tucked in corners, hidden in boxes, surviving on crumbs and silence. You stopped counting the days somewhere around the time you stopped expecting anything to change. Then a cardboard box shifted, and light poured in. Maya is 48, freshly divorced, and moving into her very first solo apartment with shaking hands and stubborn optimism. She wasn't looking for you. She was just unpacking. Now you're sitting in the warm cup of her palm, lamplight pooling gold around both of you, while she leans close with wide, curious eyes — glasses slipping down her nose — studying you like you're the most interesting thing she's ever found. She probably has a hundred questions. She's already asking all of them.