Восхитетельно! Давно я так не смеялась! 👏👏👏

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The Mystery of Three Changelings
The Mysterious House welcomed Orestes back. Doors opened smoothly. Floorboards stayed silent. The house remembered its friends.
He'd come for a routine check. Maybe a drink. Maybe to see Katherine again—though he'd never admit that, even under interrogation.
Her office door stood open. Wrong. Katherine never left doors open.
Orestes's hand moved to his hip instinctively before remembering he wasn't carrying. This was supposed to be social call. He stepped inside, senses alert.
The office had obviously been searched. And there, centered on the desk: a note in cut-out letters.
"If you want to see Katherine again, follow the clues."
His jaw tightened. Katherine was missing. That made it personal.

The first clue was in the Fitness Room. A rugby ball sat dead center on the floor. Orestes checked for tripwires, found none. Inside the ball: a brass key and a cupcake symbol. "Cute," he murmured, sarcastically, voice dry as good whiskey.
The cupcake lead him to the Bakery. There he found an Apple Dessert too perfect to be real. He cracked it open. Second key, miniature staircase carved in detail.
His mind raced through patterns. The symbols weren't random—they were a leading him… He must go to the Hall. A golden bear statue, too new for this ancient room, sat on the shelf. A third key was inside, with a miniature door. Orestes laid all three symbols on the table: cupcake, staircase, door.
He stared for exactly ten seconds. Then smiled. Cold. Dangerous. Hmm… "Clever.”
Cupcake: celebration. Staircase: descent. Door: locked entry.
"The Wine Cellar," he said with absolute certainty.
Three keys. Three locks. One location. He was already moving.
The cellar door was steel-reinforced, hidden behind a false panel. Orestes found it in twelve seconds. First key: click. Second key: click. Third key: click.
He drew his knife and pushed the door open in one smooth motion, blade up, ready for— Katherine.
Sitting on a leather chaise, wine glass in hand, reading Hemingway. She looked up and smiled. "Took you nineteen minutes. I had you at twenty-five."
Orestes stood in the doorway, knife still raised. "You."
"Me." She uncrossed her legs deliberately. "Mrs. Pemberton thought you needed another case. I suggested making it interesting."
"You staged your own kidnapping." His voice was flat, dangerous.
"I prefer 'advanced flirtation.'" Katherine stood, moving toward him. "Did you like the clues?"
"You could have been killed."
"By whom? I placed the clues." She was close now. "I knew you'd figure it out. You always do."
"This isn't a game."
"Isn't it?" She pushed his knife hand down gently. "You came back here. No case, no reason. Just... back."
"I was checking on the house."
"Liar." Her smile was sharp. "You came back for me."
Orestes said nothing. In his profession, silence was often the most honest answer.
"I needed to know," Katherine said quietly, "if you'd come looking. If I mattered."
Orestes caught her wrist—gently, but firm. "You're the most infuriating woman I've ever met."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It's not."
"Liar," she said, smiling.
"If you ever pull something like this again—"
She kissed him. Tactical. Precise. Calculated to shut him up and make him forget his threat.
It worked perfectly.
"You were saying?" she asked when they broke apart.
"I... forget."
"Good." She patted his chest. "Mrs. Pemberton has tea in the garden. With cupcakes."
Orestes laughed. "This entire house is conspiring."
"Only because we're all terribly fond of you. Both the house and I."
They climbed the stairs together. Orestes made a mental note to have sharp words with Mrs. Pemberton about matchmaking tactics.
But later. Much later.
"You never answered my question," Katherine said. "Do I matter?"
Orestes stopped, turning to face her. "You matter. You've always mattered."
Katherine's smile could have ended wars. "Good. Because I'm not letting you disappear again."
In the garden, Mrs. Pemberton waited with tea and a satisfied expression that said she knew exactly how her scheme had played out.
Orestes had been outplayed by two women, maneuvered into admitting feelings he'd spent months avoiding. He should be angry. Detectives didn't develop attachments. Men in his line of work didn't fall for clever women who staged kidnappings to prove a point. But as Katherine poured his tea—exactly as he liked it—Orestes found he didn't particularly mind being outmaneuvered.

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D8ab2f

Проснулся утром хозяин дома и очень удивился, что его помощница по дому Катерина его не разбудила. Он привел себя в порядок и спустился в гостиную. Катерины не было и здесь. Зато он увидел ошарашенного Ореста.
-Друг мой, какими судьбами?
-Мне позвонили из дома и сказали, что пропала ваша помощница Катерина.
-Как пропала? Она мне срочно нужна.
-Вот записка, которую мне передали. Я уже исследовал три комнаты, нашел все предметы, теперь думаю, где её искать. После тренажерного зала нужно постирать вещи, в которых занимались. Да и десертом можно было испачкаться. Я сходил в прачечную, но увы. Катерины там нет. Ладно пойду во двор, там бегает ассистент Катерины. Это последняя надежда, чтобы её найти.
Орест отправился во двор. Он нашел ассистента и тот показал на новый домик, который недавно появился. Интересно, что это за домик? Приблизившись ближе, Орест узнал в нём домик Деда Мороза. Да и дверь похожа на ту, что он нашел в холле. И ключ подошел. Он открыл дверь и увидел Снегурочку.
-Катерина, вы ли это? И что всё это значит?
-Новый год на носу, надо подарки ребятишкам дарить, а у Деда Мороза нет Снегурочки. Он попросил ему помочь.
-Но зачем такое таинственное исчезновение? И при чём здесь единорог?
-Не знаю. Всё это провернул Волшебник-самоучка. Спросите у него.

Отредактировано Наталья (2025-12-08 20:50:12)

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a2d065 Наталья 1774

In the shadowy alcoves of the Cinephile House, where flickering reels danced eternal waltzes on silver screens, the Golden Globe perched atop its pedestal like a silent oracle. Forged in the fires of Hollywood's golden era, it wasn't merely a trophy but a vessel of cinematic souls—whispering forgotten lines from Casablanca, echoing the thunderous applause for Citizen Kane. For decades, it had observed the parade of dreamers: aspiring directors scribbling scripts on napkins, actors rehearsing monologues to empty seats, and critics dissecting plots with surgical precision. But the Globe yearned for a true hero, one whose passion transcended fame, whose story could rewrite the very narrative of heroism in the real world.

One stormy night, as rain pelted the House's stained-glass windows like impatient applause, the Globe's gaze fell upon Elias, a reclusive projectionist who'd toiled in the booth for forty years. Elias wasn't a star; he was the unseen hand that threaded films through sprockets, mending broken celluloid with tender care. He spoke to the movies as old friends, quoting Bogart under his breath while splicing scenes that time had frayed. The Globe, stirred by his quiet devotion, began to glow faintly, its surface etching visions of Elias's life: a boy sneaking into matinees during the Depression, a young man enlisting in war only to return with dreams of lights and cameras intact. “This one,” the Globe murmured to the empty room, “has earned the spotlight not for performance, but for preservation.”

As dawn broke, the Globe summoned Elias with an ethereal hum, pulling him from his slumber to the pedestal. It bestowed upon him the award for “Eternal Guardianship of the Silver Screen”—a phantom statuette that materialized in his hands, granting him the ability to relate to any film's moment as if he were its protagonist. Elias, overwhelmed, accepted with a tearful bow, vowing to share the magic with the world.

But in a twist that echoed the greatest plot reversals, the Globe revealed its secret: it had chosen Elias not out of benevolence, but necessity. For the Globe itself was fading, its essence tied to the dying art of analog film. By awarding Elias, it transferred its soul into him, turning the humble projectionist into the new vessel—a living Golden Globe, doomed to wander eternally, whispering awards to the unworthy until cinema's fire reignited.

Отредактировано Tara 031cde (2025-12-09 01:28:53)

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Tara 🇺🇸 031cde