Sami leaned towards the jar, his weary eyes scrutinising the trapped rat from various angles. "So, you're intelligent..." he whispered hoarsely, not expecting an answer. "And you want to fix the warped plank."
He lifted the jar slowly, staring at the small creature that began trembling anew. "What do I do with you?" he asked, the question he'd been avoiding from the start.
Frustration overwhelmed him, and a fleeting urge to hurl the jar with force and end this farce entirely surged within him. But on the other hand... it was an intelligent rat. No, more than intelligent—it was human.
He sighed deeply and looked around the wrecked kitchen: broken dishes, scattered food, bloodstains on the table, and the shards of his mother's mirror. He had broken so much in such a short time, and he didn't want to add anything else to that list.
In the end, he couldn't make a decision. He placed the jar back on the table, resolving to postpone the matter for another time. He was too exhausted, too confused, and too angry to think clearly.
Sami bent down, wiping the floor with tense movements, gathering the scattered chickpeas and lentils. "The good thing is most of what fell is pulses—I can clean them, and they won't spoil."
He picked up a lentil stuck to the table's leg, then turned towards the jar. "You know, even after waking up, I still don't understand why you understand me?"
The rat inside the jar stopped moving, still as if listening.
"But you're too dim to know the answer yourself." Sami let out a muffled laugh as he emptied the rubbish bag. "Not that I'm any better, mind you."
He froze in front of the jar. "Do you understand what I mean?" The rat nodded hesitantly, though Sami couldn't tell if it was a genuine response or a desperate attempt to win his approval.
"I mean, my reflection told me outright that I made you rational, but how?" Sami ran his hand over his weary face. "The magic was clear that I can't achieve what I don't know how to do, but I don't know how to make rats smarter!"
He pointed at the rat. "Even if you became rational, how do you understand my language directly? Do you know English too?"
The rat tilted its head to one side, then shrugged its tiny shoulders in denial.
"At least even the rat doesn't know English," Sami said with a smile. "Imagine a multilingual rat when I'm not…"
He finished cleaning the kitchen after placing a net full of lentils in water to soak, then sat on the chair, holding a glass of water. He began picking at the table's wood with his fingernail as he drank.
"I can't believe my throat hurts just from talking." He took another sip. "When was the last time I spoke more than two sentences… and to a rat!"
He paused. His voice suddenly dropped.
"You know… I didn't realise how much I missed hearing my own voice."
The rat tilted its head, its small eyes staring at Sami with something akin to… understanding?
"Even if the listener is just a rat," Sami added quickly, trying to mask what he'd just said with a sardonic smile.
The rat raised its empty front paws in a gesture of helplessness.
"I don't mean to insult you, honestly." Sami shook his head. "It's not like you know how to speak anyway."
The rat waved its paw in a dismissive gesture.
"You know what's strange too?" His movement stopped abruptly. "I can understand your gestures so easily, as if you've spent ages interacting with humans." He nodded towards the rat. "Even though you only became intelligent yesterday… and it helps that you interact…" His smile froze oddly. "Like me."
"Like me…" Sami repeated, his pupils widening. He snatched the jar from the table and stood abruptly. "Do you know my father's name?"
The rat inside the jar flinched back in fear, shaking its head in a quick, nervous denial.
"Do you speak French?" Sami shouted, his voice rising to the edge of agitation.
The rat froze, glanced with its tiny head, then raised its paws in a circular motion, as if to say: a little.
Sami's face paled. It couldn't be… "You… know some French… exactly like me," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
He set the jar back on the table slowly, then leaned forward until his face was level with the rat's. "Do you know my name? My age? Anything personal about me?"
Each question was met with a shake of the rat's head.
He stepped back, his hands trembling. "What is this… what is this magic?" he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "You know everything I know… but you don't have my memories."
He closed his eyes tightly. "The rules," he whispered. "You can't desire what you're not skilled at."
He began pacing the kitchen back and forth, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Let me get this straight… the rat has all my knowledge, including how to hammer nails." He froze, gripping the edge of the table. "But I don't know how to teach a rat to hammer nails?"
True, he knew how to hammer nails, but the point remained. He didn't know how to impart knowledge to a rat.
Yet the evidence was before him.
The rat had become rational, like him.
Like him…
He knew how to be rational… how to become rational?
He spun towards the jar, his pupils gleaming with growing realisation. "The magic didn't give it my knowledge…" He raised his finger in the air. "Wait. The rat became rational. I'm rational. And I know how to be rational… I know how to think, how to reason, how to solve problems."
He clapped his hands together in excitement. "I don't know how to teach a rat to hammer nails, but I'm skilled at being rational. And the rat has my mind to understand how to hammer nails!"
Had… had the magic taken a convoluted path to fulfil his desire? Made the rat rational as a first step, so it could possess his knowledge?
He stood for a moment, stunned by his own deduction. He looked at the rat, which now seemed immersed in the same astonishment.
"I can't believe I'm thinking this…" But the rat had given him a conversation, even if one-sided. It shared his knowledge, his ability to think. It was like an alternate version of himself—same mind, but in an animal's body, without personal history.
After a long hesitation, Sami reached out and opened the jar's lid. He stepped back, making space for the rat to emerge. But the rat stayed put, only poking its nose out slightly to sniff the air.
"Don't be afraid," Sami said calmly. "I won't hurt you."
But the rat wasn't convinced. It began making random gestures with its nose and paws, trying to convey something. Sami remembered saying the same thing last night when he caught it.
"I won't repeat what I did last night," he said firmly. "I won't trick you."
Even with this assurance, the rat seemed sceptical. It poked its head out slowly, tensely, then quickly withdrew. But when it saw Sami didn't pounce, it began to relax.
After moments of hesitation, the rat finally emerged from the jar, leaping onto the table with caution, ready to flee at any moment.
Its confidence grew gradually. Its trembling ceased, and it began inspecting its surroundings with curious eyes. Then, as Sami expected, it glanced left and right, searching for something, until its eyes settled on the hammer Sami had carelessly left on the table after being too lazy to return it to the toolbox.
Sami watched with a mix of amusement and astonishment as the rat advanced towards the heavy tool. Like the previous night, it first tried to bite the hammer's wooden handle, then attempted to drag it. But the hammer barely moved a few millimetres.
It pushed the hammer with its tiny chest, then tried wrapping its tail around the handle like a rope, even standing on its hind legs and pushing with all its might. In a particularly desperate moment, it attempted to climb the hammer as if it were a steed to be tamed, only to slip and return to square one.
The rat fell onto its back, its four legs splayed in the air.
It stayed like that for a moment, then… gave up. It didn't try to get up.
It merely raised its tiny paw and waved it in the air—a gesture of surrender.
"You really are like me," Sami whispered, unable to suppress a laugh—a genuine one this time, not sardonic. "And how do you plan to use it when you can't even lift it?" he wondered aloud.
The rat stopped its efforts, sat up, and stared at the hammer with determination brimming in its eyes. It began circling the tool slowly, studying it from every angle, just as Sami had done earlier while observing it in the jar.
Suddenly, the rat stopped circling the hammer and looked up at Sami. A spark of an idea glinted in its tiny eyes. It began nodding its head in an exaggerated gesture of thought, as if settling on a plan. It pointed to itself with both front paws, brought them close together, then pointed at Sami and spread them wider.
Sami raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You… small, and I'm big?"
The rat nodded enthusiastically, then pointed to itself again, spreading its tiny paws wider this time.
"You want to become… big like me?" Sami said hesitantly.
The rat bounced in place, agreeing with fervent gestures, rapidly pointing between itself, the hammer, and Sami.
Sami pulled the chair and sat slowly, resting his elbows on the table and cradling his face in his hands. "You want to become big like me…" he repeated, trying to grasp the words.
He looked at the rat, hopping in place with childlike excitement, then his eyes slid to the leather-bound book, still open on the table from the previous night. The page was turned to the "understanding" ritual he had used before.
"And how do we do that…" he whispered, tapping his finger on the worn cover. His gaze drifted to the word "understanding" written in dark ink, then to the small rat now staring at him with clear expectation.
His eyes wandered further, settling on the shattered fragments of the mirror—his mother's mirror—barely pieced together like a jagged puzzle. His fingers froze above the book's cover in that moment. He recalled the price he'd paid: his reflection, that mysterious part of himself he'd lost.
He raised his hand slowly to wipe his sweating brow. On one hand, he now understood the rules of magic better. He knew desire required a skill he possessed, and that sacrifice could be hidden. This time, he wouldn't make the same mistake as with the plank.
But on the other hand… what price would he pay this time? If the "understanding" ritual had cost him his reflection, what might a ritual to change a living creature's size demand?
His hands began to tremble. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to rein in his curiosity. "No," he whispered to himself. "This is madness."
But when he opened his eyes, he saw the rat still staring at him with that familiar look—the mix of defiance and hope he used to show when pleading with his mother.
He sighed deeply, his fingers gripping the table's edge until his knuckles whitened. He was torn. The fear of the rational clashed with the boldness of the experimenter. Hard-earned wisdom wrestled with curiosity that threatened ruin.
"Enough," he said in a hoarse voice, warning himself more than addressing the rat.
He pushed the book away as if it carried a plague. It wasn't fear of the rat, nor of the magic itself, but of that part of him ready to risk it all again.
He rose from his chair abruptly, stepping away from the table. "No more of these games," he whispered, but his voice was resolute this time, echoing his father's tone, confirming it was the right decision.
He saw a flicker of disappointment in the rat's eyes but ignored it. For the first time in days, he felt he'd made a sound choice. Perhaps some questions were better left unanswered, and some miracles better left out of reach.
He gripped the hammer's wooden handle firmly, a familiar sense of determination flooding him.
No rituals, no clever rats—just his father's teachings.
He'd solve problems with real tools, not cryptic magic. But the rat began squeaking in an irritating tone, leaping off the table and darting after him, trying to climb his trouser leg.
"Enough!" Sami roared, shaking his leg violently to dislodge the rat clinging to the fabric. But the rat persisted, its squeaks turning into a desperate wail, like a child's cry.
The squeaking grew louder, sharper, until Sami felt it pierce his skull, stirring a mix of anger and a strange pang of guilt.
"If you don't stop now, I'll put you back in the jar!" Sami threatened, his voice trembling with anger. But the threat was futile. The rat leapt higher up his trouser leg, trying to push the hammer away, its tiny body quivering with effort.
It was an uneven battle between a man and a desperate little rat. Sami raised the hammer high as the rat jumped again, attempting to reach his hand.
In the end, with a sudden motion, he seized the rat with his free hand, feeling the warmth of its small body trembling like a wounded bird. His grip was harsher than it should have been, his anger blinding him to the pleading black eyes staring up in silent desperation. He flung it into the jar, its fragile body striking the glass wall with a faint, painful thud.
It collapsed into a small ball at the bottom.
A desperate squeal filled the room before falling silent at last.
Sami slammed the lid shut, then turned to the warped wooden plank. He gripped its cracked edge, his fingers tracing the deep scratches left by the nails, one by one. His nails clung to the heads of the screws. The wood resisted, stubborn and unyielding.
When he pried out the first nail, he felt tiny splinters lodge under his fingernails. A faint burn spread through his palm from the friction.
He could have fetched the crowbar from the toolbox, but he didn't want to.
He wanted to feel the wood's groan under the pressure of his hands. Sweat began dripping down his brow, but he didn't stop. Each nail he extracted felt like wrenching out a piece of his frustration. The rough sounds of tearing wood fibres, the smell of swirling dust, the moment a nail suddenly gave way, sending a painful jolt through his wrist—all of it was a release for his pent-up anger.
Every now and then, he heard a faint scratching from inside the jar, but he ignored it. His blistered hands and the twisted nails piling up on the floor around him became his entire world.
After hammering the final nail into the repaired plank, Sami tossed the hammer aside and collapsed into his chair, exhausted. He sighed deeply, lifting his blistered hand to inspect the dirt and splinters lodged under his nails. With effort, he pulled out a small piece of wood stuck beneath a nail, watching a tiny drop of blood appear in its place.
In a mechanical motion, he reached out and opened the jar's lid without sparing the rat a second glance. He had no energy left to deal with it after all this effort and frustration.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the rat emerge cautiously, slinking down the table's wooden leg with feline agility, then approaching the repaired plank. It stood there for a long time, inspecting the work with critical eyes. It could have been a moment of triumph, but the air was heavy with disappointment.
When the rat finally turned to Sami, its eyes carried something akin to sorrow. Sami waved his weary hand. "Go, if you want."
The rat didn't respond with a gesture or even attempt to protest. It simply turned its back and headed towards the kitchen door. The soft sound of its four paws pattering across the floor was the only thing to break the room's silence until it vanished into the darkness.
Sami sat for a long time in heavy silence. The slanting rays of sunlight cast a long shadow of his body across the kitchen floor, stretching slowly until it touched the opposite wall.
When he finally rose, his movements were slow and heavy, as if bearing an invisible weight.
He took an old copper pot and filled it with water from the clay jug, then kindled a quiet fire beneath the stone stove with paper matches. He placed the pot on the flame, watching air bubbles rise from its copper base. He added the soaked lentils, stirring them with a wooden spoon, then tossed in a handful of salt from a cloth sack.
As the pot simmered, he returned to the table and picked up the leather-bound book. He didn't open it this time, merely held it and climbed the wooden stairs to his room, each step creaking beneath his feet as if lamenting with him. He opened the wooden drawer beside his bed, placed the book inside with care, and locked it with an old brass key.
He returned, put out the fire, and sat to eat slowly.
The only sound was his chewing.
The same silence that had accompanied him for the past six months filled the room once more.
He raised his eyes to the empty jar, then to the broken mirror.
This time, he said nothing.