The afternoon light slanted through the diamond-paned windows of Whispering Pines Cottage. It painted shifting patterns across the worn wooden floor. Madam Setsuna sat in her chair, her steel cup empty on the table beside her. Strela, her white Spitz, lay nearby, her thick fur glowing in the gold of the setting sun.

Earlier, Strela had arrived at the door, urgent as ever. She trotted in briskly, a letter clutched carefully in her mouth. She placed it at Madam Setsuna’s feet and gave a short, insistent bark. Her dark eyes watched closely, her tail held still—a signal that this was important.

Madam Setsuna picked up the letter, reading it in silence. Once. Twice. She let the words settle, like silt in still water. Strela paced as she waited, glancing toward the door, then back at Setsuna, as if urging her to act.

“They’re desperate for answers,” Madam Setsuna murmured. She could feel it in the restless energy of her companion. Strela gave a low huff, ears forward, expectant. She stood alert, as though trying to will a solution into existence.

Setsuna’s gaze softened. She lowered the letter to her lap and spoke quietly.

“Who am I to tell someone how to live?”

Strela tilted her head at that, one ear flicking back. She let out a soft, questioning whine. Madam Setsuna smiled faintly.

“You think I should tell them?” she said. Strela sat down slowly, her front paws neatly aligned, tail curling in stillness behind her. Her eyes held steady, waiting. Listening.

“No,” Setsuna said at last, rising to stand at the window. The pines outside shifted in the wind, steady and patient. “I don’t tell people how to live. I remind them they are free to choose.”

She glanced back as Strela rose too, paws light on the old wooden floor. The dog followed, standing close enough that their reflections merged in the window glass.

“Life isn’t a riddle,” Setsuna continued. “It’s a game. And the rules are ours to make.”

At that, Strela exhaled through her nose—a sound Setsuna recognized. Doubt. Concern. The dog’s brow furrowed slightly, her stance tense but grounded.

“I know,” Setsuna said softly. “You think it’s foolish. They suffer. They need certainty.” She turned back to the room. “But certainty is an illusion.”

She sat again, lifting the letter. Stroking its edges with a thoughtful hand.

“This writer believes there’s a right answer. One perfect path.” She glanced at Strela, whose ears shifted slightly ahead again, listening. “But I see branches. Choices. None wrong. None perfect.”

Strela lay down slowly, curling her body into a tight, watchful ball. Only the faint twitch of her tail betrayed her restlessness.

“You wonder if that’s just avoiding responsibility,” Setsuna mused. “If it’s just a game, why play at all?”

Strela gave a soft, almost imperceptible growl—low and questioning.

“Because the game is all we have,” Setsuna said. “We can’t control the board. Only how we move on it.”

She took up her pen and began to write. Strela rose and padded over, watching her hand move across the page. The air in the room grew quieter, as if the trees themselves were listening.

“I won’t tell them what to do,” Setsuna said as she wrote. “I’ll give them questions. Open doors they haven’t seen.”

Later, when she sealed the letter, she placed it in Strela’s mouth. The dog took it gently, waiting for the signal.

“In every mystery,” Setsuna said, “it isn’t about forcing truth. It’s about understanding the game you’re in—and whether you’d rather play a different one.”

She stood and walked to the stove. Lit the fire. The Bialetti hissed softly as she set it to brew.

“Maybe that’s why I prefer mysteries,” she added. “They come with their own logic. I don’t have to invent it.”

The smell of coffee filled the small cottage. Strela sat by her feet again, calm now, as if satisfied.

“So,” Setsuna asked, pouring two cups—one for herself, one to warm her hands. “What should I tell them?”

Strela wagged her tail once. Quiet approval.

Setsuna smiled. “I’ll tell them to play. To try different rules until they find the one that brings them joy.”

Outside, the pines swayed like old players in an endless dance. Strela watched them for a moment, then lay her head on her paws. The game would continue. And they would play it well.