It began with a mission: rescue a rogue LEGO from the dusty purgatory beneath the bookshelf. Pencil in hand (standard protocol for unknown floor hazards), I braced for the familiar sting of plastic betrayal. Instead, my probe met resistance—a lumpy, crunchy, vaguely plasticky mass nestled in the shadows. My stomach dropped. Please don’t be a mouse. Please don’t be a mouse.
I nudged it. It held firm. No scent of decay—just the faint, ghostly whisper of synthetic nostalgia. And then it hit me.
