To most people, she was unsettling.

Not evil. Not dangerous. Just... off.

Tall, pale, with wide, unblinking eyes and a voice like stale air down a corridor—her presence was hard to explain and harder to ignore. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost mechanical. Strangers wouldn’t say hello. Coworkers kept conversations short. She’d never been invited out for lunch.

And it hurt. Of course it did. She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t angry. Just awkward—visibly, palpably, almost hauntingly awkward.

So she came up with a plan. She'd heard people say talking to pets helped them practice conversation. Pets didn’t judge. Pets didn’t flinch. Pets didn’t end the call the second she spoke.

That’s when she bought a Miniklin.

Tiny, fragile, and barely larger than her fingernail, the little thing chirped and squeaked when she held it up. It didn't talk back. It couldn't look away. It was perfect. She named it Peep.

Now every morning, she sets Peep gently on the table and talks over coffee. Tells it about her day. Practices small talk. Smiles, even if her smile is crooked and eerie. She's getting better, she thinks. Sometimes. And Peep is always there, squeaking softly like a good little pet.

She never thinks about what’s going on in Peep’s mind. Why would she? It’s just a Miniklin.