Traveling by giant is a hypnotic experience.

  Sitting deep inside the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, Mira is enveloped in darkness and warmth. The outside world feels distant.

  Every step he takes sends a long, rhythmic sway through her world. The motion is powerful, like a large ship in deep water.

  Then, the world drops. She feels a smooth descent as his knees bend, followed by the firm impact of his weight settling onto a chair. He leans forward, the fabric of the pocket tightening just a fraction against her back.

  The opening above her darkens further. Something soft and heavy—his scarf—drapes over his chest, creating a woolen tunnel between his jacket and the desk.

  Under this cover, the pocket opens. Mira climbs out, crawling through the dark folds of the scarf, completely hidden from the room. Her hands find the familiar plush velvet of the pen case, and she slips inside.

  The scarf moves aside, but a new wall rises to protect her—the dark back of his laptop screen.

  From where she sits, she can see him—his chin, the edge of his jaw. Adrian looks completely composed. To him, sheltering a doll-sized girl in his pen case seems to be just another part of the academic routine.

  At the front of the room, Professor Aldren clears his throat again, dry and sharp, trying to regain control of a class that hasn’t even technically derailed—because no one knows what’s happening.

  He’s still looking at Adrian.

  Still wondering if this is real.

  Because twenty minutes ago, Mira Larkspur—punctual, participatory, a borderline syllabus idol—had emailed him to request a sudden absence.

  And now Adrian Vale is sitting in his classroom. Calmly. Alone. With a laptop tilted slightly forward. And a presence that makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

  Aldren swallows, then turns his eyes back to the rest of the students, as if looking at Adrian too long might somehow hurt him. Or trigger something.

  He opens his mouth. Shuts it again.

  What in the world are those two up to?

  And why does it feel like the whole room is one misstep away from stepping into someone else's very elaborate secret?

  The moment Professor Aldren begins outlining the new scenario—cross-border resource strain, AI-coordinated response clusters, population displacement probabilities—Mira is already pointing at the chart. Pointing at Adrian. Pointing at the air as if it were a chalkboard and she had exactly three seconds before the next slide.

  Adrian finally types something.

  His fingers fly across the keyboard, line by line, as if transcribing the professor’s voice in real-time.

  She watches his notes fill the screen in structured logic blocks, graphs copied with annotated margins, and even Aldren’s offhand muttering jotted down in clean shorthand.

  Her arms slowly lower.

  And yet—ten seconds later, when he skips a throwaway quote she finds critical, she throws both hands up again, mouthing, “Why would you skip that?” before rolling onto her back in exaggerated despair.

  Adrian types it in, without looking.

  She sits back up immediately, nodding in approval.

  By minute thirty, when Aldren jokes that this is the part where simulations tend to collapse if handled wrong, she flails both arms in warning. Adrian, to her surprise, actually highlights the line.

  Somewhere beyond the laptop screen, the class watches slides on the wall, unaware that the real storm of attention and strategy is unfolding secretly, in miniature, on Adrian Vale’s desk.

  *

  The car slows as it enters the city. The muffled noise of the waking metropolis filters in through the glass.

  Mira shifts slightly, mumbling, “Are we there?”

  Adrian unfastens his seatbelt, glancing down at her. “Yeah. Stay still.”

  One hand in his pocket—the very pocket where Mira remains hidden—he steps out of the car, the city waiting for them outside.

  Adrian isn’t the shopping type. Especially not for… this kind of shopping.

  His expression is unreadable as he walks through the city, blending into the crowd with his dark coat and sharp features. Inside his pocket, Mira stays quiet, only peeking through a small gap.The world outside moves so fast compared to her tiny form.

  He pulls out his phone and types in a search. ‘Doll store near me.’

  Click.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Directions appear. A 15-minute walk. Adrian sighs. This is going to be ridiculous.

  As Adrian pushes open the glass doors of the doll shop, a bell jingles cheerfully. Instantly, he’s hit with an overwhelming sight—rows upon rows of delicate porcelain dolls, miniature furniture, and tiny clothes.

  The soft pastel colors of the shop clash aggressively with his all-black attire and serious expression. A few shoppers—mostly women and children—immediately take notice.

  A tall, handsome boy, dressed sharply in dark colors… in a doll shop?

  What is this scene?

  The store clerk, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, approaches. “Oh my! Are you looking for something for your little sister?”

  Adrian pauses. He could lie. That’s a reasonable excuse. But somehow, that feels like extra effort.

  Instead, he clears his throat. “I need doll clothes. A variety of them. Plus furniture and tableware.”

  The woman’s eyes sparkle. “Oh! What kind of doll do you have? What size?”

  Adrian hesitates. How does he even answer that?

  Inside his pocket, Mira is silently dying of secondhand embarrassment. This is too much. Too much. Why is he handling this so coldly?!

  The store clerk giggles. “You must really love your doll to be buying so many things at once!”

  Adrian, deadpan: “Something like that.”

  The whispers in the store grow. Who is he? Is he a collector? A rich boy with a strange hobby? A secret doll enthusiast?!

  Meanwhile, nestled safely in the inner fold of his coat pocket, Mira peeks out—just enough to see the world, not enough to be seen. Or so she thinks.

  Across the aisle, a tiny human—barely three years old—toddles past with wide eyes and a face sticky from whatever treat she last consumed. Her gaze flicks to the coat pocket.

  Then stops.

  Mira’s breath catches. Green eyes stare into brown ones. A beat. Then another.

  The child tilts her head and blinks.

  Mira freezes, going stiff like a showroom mannequin, willing herself to be doll-like

  Perhaps too doll-like. Because the child steps closer and whispers with awe, “Mommy… his doll just blinked.”

  Her mother, busy examining a price tag, replies absently, “Sweetie, dolls don’t blink.

  “But this one did!

  Her mother gives a distracted hum, still not looking up. “That’s a very detailed imagination you’ve got there.”

  “She blinked again! In his pocket! She has silver hair and green eyes! I want one just like that!”

  Her mother, busy examining a price tag, doesn’t even look up. “You already have too many dolls, sweetie.”

  Her mother gives the standard grown-up hum of disinterest, but the girl stands her ground, staring like a hawk scouting prey. Mira, still stiff, begins calculating how long a small child’s attention span usually lasts.

  Not long enough. She gives an involuntary blink.

  The child gasps.

  Adrian turns just slightly, his eyes darting toward his coat pocket with a perfectly casual expression—not too quick, not too obvious—then turns back to the display rack, shielding Mira with the broad drape of his coat.

  “Hey,” he says under his breath, without moving his lips, “you’re supposed to be a doll.”

  Inside the pocket, Mira dares not even breathe.

  The child, still pointing, says with urgency, “Mommy, please, can I have the blinking doll? She’s magic!”

  Her mother finally looks up, catches sight of Adrian—decidedly not the type to be wandering around with blinking dolls—and smiles politely. “Let’s not bother other shoppers, sweetheart.”

  As the jingling bell signals the little girl’s exit, Mira exhales slowly, her heart hammering against a chest the size of a blueberry.

  Adrian glances down at her, hiding a smirk. “We may need to get you sunglasses next time.”

  After an overwhelming selection process, Adrian ends up with: A variety of doll-sized outfits. Miniature furniture, and basic essentials. Some tiny shoes, just in case.

  The store clerk rings up the items, smiling. “That will be—”

  Adrian exhales, swiping his card without a word.

  Mira, still hidden, feels a pang of guilt.

  As they step out of the store, bags in hand, Adrian finally speaks.

  “You better pay me back for this. Or at least… owe me a favor. This is way too much kindness for someone like me.”

  Mira, still feeling guilty, hesitates. “…I’ll think of something.”

  Adrian smirks slightly. At least she knows.

  Adrian walks through the city streets, carrying a bag filled with doll clothes, a dollhouse, and an assortment of miniature furniture.

  His expression remains as neutral as ever, but inside, he’s contemplating every life decision that led him to this moment.

  Passersby glance at him—some with curiosity, others with amusement.

  A tall, brooding young man, dressed in black… holding a pastel-colored shopping bag filled with tiny, frilly dresses?

  Hilarious.

  Inside his pocket, Mira is trying not to laugh.

  He looks ridiculous.

  But also… kinda cool, in a weird way?

  Adrian suddenly speaks in a low voice. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Mira flinches. Damn it. He caught that.

  She quickly denies. “I-I didn’t say anything!”

  “Your silence is loud.”

  Mira pouts but doesn’t argue.

  ?

  The pastel doll-store bag rustles aggressively against his leg as they walk. Adrian ignores it, focusing instead on the GPS directions leading them toward a more artisanal district of the city.

  He checks the address again. Botanical & Bloom.

  When he pushes the door open, the air is warm and sweet, smelling of dried herbs, and a soft, delicate chime of a Christmas music box floats gently to meet him from somewhere in the back of the shop. He navigates the aisles without looking at the displays of bath bombs or candles. He knows what he needs.

  Osmanthus. Sweet olive. Native to the east and blooming in late autumn.

  He lifts the small tester on the shelf. The scent reminds him of the moment he held her hand and how impossibly soft her skin felt against his palm, it makes perfect sense why she relies on this specific blend.

  To anyone else, it looks like he is stocking up for a girlfriend who is moving in with him. The idea of his bathroom counter carrying her things, the reality of making his place safe for her somehow makes him happy. He holds onto that feeling, keeping his expression gentle but unreadable, and heads to the counter to pay.

  Since a restaurant is out of the question for a guest her size, he drives to the supermarket. For the first time, Adrian finds himself pushing a cart through the produce section, actually stocking his fridge like a functioning adult. He picks out fresh fruit, soft bread, and honeycomb, acutely aware of the irony; he is stocking an entire kitchen for a girl who is the size of his finger and eats less than a sparrow. Yet, as he tosses a container of strawberries into the cart, the domestic weight of it feels surprisingly grounding.

  And with the mystery of her condition still unfolding, for now, they are simply shopping, letting the afternoon pass by in a slow, comfortable haze.