The School Under the Stairs

Maya Tanaka was ten years old, and she had been feeling nervous for three days.

Three days ago, she had moved to a new town with her mother and her five-year-old brother, Kenta.

Now she was standing outside Midori Elementary School with her backpack on her shoulders and her heart beating very fast.

The school was bigger than her old one.

It had three floors, wide hallways, and a large playground with two tall trees near the fence.

Children were running, laughing, and calling to each other everywhere.

Maya did not know any of them.

"You will be fine," her mother had said that morning, fixing Maya's collar and smiling.

But Maya was not sure.

She had heard those words before.

She had been fine at her old school, where she had known everyone since first grade.

This was different.

She walked through the front gate slowly and followed the signs to the office.

A teacher with short gray hair and kind eyes met her at the door.

"You must be Maya Tanaka! I am Ms. Kato. Welcome to Midori Elementary School."

Ms. Kato walked her to Class 3-B.

When the door opened, twenty-eight children looked up at the same time.

Maya's face turned hot.

"Everyone, this is Maya Tanaka. She has just moved here from Osaka. Please make her feel welcome."

Maya bowed and said, "Nice to meet you."

Her voice came out smaller than she had planned.

She sat at a desk near the window.

The girl next to her had long black hair and bright eyes and a pencil case covered with cat stickers.

"I am Yuki," the girl whispered, leaning over carefully.

"Do not worry. Everyone here is nice. Most of them, anyway."

Maya tried to smile.

But at lunch, Yuki went to sit with her other friends.

Maya sat at the end of a long table and ate her rice ball slowly, looking out the window at the two tall trees.

She had been texting her old friends in Osaka every evening, but talking through a phone was not the same as sitting next to someone and laughing at the same thing.

After lunch, the students went outside for free time.

Maya did not know who to talk to, so she walked slowly around the edge of the building, looking at the ground.

That was when she found it.

At the back of the school, there was a stone staircase that was different from all the others.

The main stairs inside were clean and bright.

But these stairs were outside, made of dark gray stone, and covered with thick green moss.

They went up to the second floor, but nobody seemed to use them.

A fence had been put in front of them with a sign that said, "Do not use. Old staircase."

Under the stairs, there was a small dark space, almost like a little room.

The floor inside was packed earth, and old dry leaves had gathered in the corners.

Maya stopped and looked at it for a long time.

She did not know why, but something about that dark space made her very curious.

She did not go closer that day.

But she kept thinking about it for the rest of the afternoon, all through math class and reading time, until the last bell rang and she walked home.

The next morning, Maya arrived at school early.

She told her mother she wanted to study before class started, but really she wanted to look at the stone stairs again.

The playground was empty.

The morning air was cool and a little damp, and the grass was still wet from the night before.

Maya walked around to the back of the building and stood in front of the old staircase.

In the early morning light, she could see the space under the stairs more clearly than the day before.

It was about as tall as her knee.

The floor inside was hard earth.

Old leaves had gathered in the corners, and a small spider had made a web near the entrance.

There were also marks in the earth—very small marks, as if something tiny had been walking there.

Maya crouched down and looked more carefully.

The space went deeper than she had expected.

It was dark at the back, too dark to see clearly.

Then she noticed something strange.

At the very back of the dark space, there was a small light.

It was warm and yellow, about the size of a firefly's glow.

But it was not moving the way a firefly moves.

It moved slowly, steadily, like something being carried carefully.

Maya blinked.

The light was still there.

She reached into her bag and took out her phone.

She turned on the flashlight and pointed it under the stairs.

The small light disappeared immediately.

Maya turned off her phone flashlight and waited.

The space went completely dark.

Then, after a few seconds, the small warm light appeared again, in almost the same place.

Maya's heart was beating fast.

She felt a little scared, but she felt more curious than scared.

She had always loved mysteries.

In Osaka, she had read every mystery book in the school library, and she had wished many times that she could find a real mystery of her own.

"Hello?" she said, very softly.

The light stopped moving.

"I am not going to hurt you," she said, keeping her voice gentle and low.

"I just want to know what you are."

Nothing happened for a long moment.

The morning birds were singing in the tall trees, and somewhere inside the school a door opened and closed.

Maya stayed perfectly still.

Then, very slowly, a tiny figure stepped forward into the edge of the light.

Maya held her breath.

It was a child.

A very, very small child—no taller than Maya's longest finger.

The child had short dark hair, a round face with wide eyes, and was wearing a tiny blue jacket with small wooden buttons.

The child was holding a smooth, glowing stone in one hand.

That was the source of the warm yellow light.

The tiny child looked up at Maya with large, surprised eyes.

"You can see me?" the child said.

The voice was very small, like the sound a cricket makes, but Maya could understand every word clearly.

"Yes," Maya whispered. "I can see you."

The tiny child looked very surprised.

Then frightened.

Then surprised again.

The expression kept changing, as if the child could not decide how to feel.

"That is not supposed to happen," the child said at last, still holding the glowing stone tightly.

"Humans are not supposed to be able to see us."

"Why not?" Maya asked softly.

"Because we use dust to hide ourselves," the child explained, looking around nervously as if checking that no one else was nearby.

"Our elders make it every month. We put it on our clothes and our skin, and it makes humans look away."

"Their eyes just slide past us, without stopping."

"But sometimes it does not work on children who are—" The child stopped and looked down.

"Who are what?" Maya asked gently.

"Who are lonely," the child said, in a quieter voice.

Maya felt her face grow warm.

It was true.

She had been lonely since moving to this new town.

She had been lonely in a way she had not felt in a long time, and she had not told anyone, not even her mother.

"I am Pip," the tiny child said, looking up again.

"I am eight years old. And I am a student at the school under these stairs."

"I am Maya," she replied. "I am ten."

She paused, thinking about what Pip had just said. "Are you a fairy?"

Pip made a small face of strong disagreement.

"No! We are not fairies. We do not have wings, and we do not do magic, and we do not live in flowers."

Pip stood up straighter. "We are small people. We have lived near humans for thousands of years, but we do not usually speak to them."

"Then why are you speaking to me?" Maya asked.

Pip looked down at the glowing stone for a moment.

"Because you said hello. And you said you would not hurt me."

Pip looked up. "And because I was also a little bit lonely. All my classmates left early today, and I stayed behind to finish my homework, and then I was here alone."

Maya sat down on the cold ground, not minding that her uniform might get dirty.

She wanted to see Pip more easily.

From this angle, she could also see further into the dark space, and she began to notice things she had not seen before.

Tiny shelves along the walls, filled with books no bigger than her thumbnail.

Small desks and chairs arranged in neat rows.

A little chalkboard on the far wall with writing too small for her to read.

And beyond all of that, more rooms, more lights, going deeper and further than seemed possible from outside.

"You really do have a school in there," Maya said, feeling amazed.

"Not just in this space," Pip said proudly, and for the first time, smiled.

"Our school goes all the way through the old foundation of the building. We have twelve classrooms, a library, a hall, and a garden."

"A garden?"

"A very small one," Pip admitted. "But it has real flowers."

Maya stared at the tiny child, and the tiny child stared back at her.

The morning birds were still singing.

The school bell had not rung yet.

"What do you study?" Maya asked.

Pip's eyes became bright with something like excitement.

"Come back tomorrow morning," Pip said. "I will ask Teacher Hana if I can show you properly."

Maya nodded.

"I will come back," she promised.

And she meant it.

Maya came back the next morning, and the morning after that.

Each time, she arrived early, walked to the old stone staircase at the back of the building, crouched down on the cold ground, and waited.

And each time, Pip was there.

On the third visit, Pip was already sitting on a smooth pebble near the entrance, as if waiting.

"I have permission," Pip said, with a very serious face.

"Teacher Hana said I could explain some things to you. She wants me to answer your questions."

"Your teacher knows about me?" Maya asked, surprised.

"Yes. She has known since the very first day. She saw you looking at the stairs."

Pip paused. "She says you have honest eyes. That is a good sign, she says."

Maya felt a warm feeling in her chest.

Pip began to explain about the school.

The small people had a name for themselves in their own language, but in human words, they called themselves the "understanders."

Their most important role, passed down through many generations, was to understand the humans who lived near them.

Each family group attached itself to a human building—a school, a house, a library, a shop—and stayed there, learning, for many years.

"Why do you need to understand us?" Maya asked.

She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, leaning close but not reaching in.

Pip had explained that she must never put her hand inside the space without asking first.

"Because we share the world," Pip said simply.

"We eat the seeds that fall from human gardens in autumn."

"We keep warm from the heat that comes through the walls of human buildings in winter."

"We find water from the pipes that run underground."

"We cannot live well without being close to humans. So we must understand you."

"What exactly do you study?" Maya asked.

Pip began to count on tiny fingers.

Human language was the most important subject—they learned to read human books and listen carefully to human speech.

After that, they studied human food and how humans prepared it.

They studied human weather habits—why some humans carried umbrellas and others did not.

They studied human tools and what each one was used for.

And most importantly, they studied human feelings.

"Human feelings?" Maya said.

"That is the hardest subject of all," Pip said, with a look of deep concentration.

"We have been studying it for three hundred years and there is still so much we do not understand."

"Why do humans sometimes cry when they are happy?"

"Why do they say 'I am fine' when anyone can see that they are not fine?"

"Why do they laugh at something that happened before, even when nothing is funny now?"

Maya thought about this seriously. "I don't think we always understand our own feelings either," she said.

"Feelings can be very confusing, even from the inside."

"Really? Even for you?"

"Really," Maya said. "I have been trying to understand why I feel so lonely here, even when people are being kind to me. I haven't figured it out yet."

Pip was quiet for a moment, then wrote something in the tiny notebook.

"Would you help us?" Pip asked finally.

"If I bring you questions from the human feelings class, would you try to answer them?"

"You do not need to know all the answers. Even saying 'I do not know' is useful to us. It tells us the question is very hard."

Maya looked into the small, serious face looking up at her.

She thought about the tiny library, the tiny classrooms, the three hundred years of careful study.

She thought about how hard it must be to try to understand a whole world that was so much bigger than you.

"Yes," she said. "I would be happy to help."

Maya and Pip began to meet every morning before the school bell rang.

Sometimes they also met at lunchtime, when Maya walked to a quiet corner near the old stairs and sat with her lunch box on her lap.

They made a kind of exchange.

Pip asked questions, and Maya answered.

Maya asked questions, and Pip answered.

It worked very well because they were both curious about things.

Some of Pip's questions came from the human feelings textbook, and some came from things Pip had seen or heard and could not understand.

"Why do humans wear completely different shoes just for going inside?" Pip asked one morning.

Maya thought about it. "To keep the floors clean, I think. Outside shoes carry mud and dirt."

Pip wrote this down carefully.

"But sometimes I have seen humans wear outdoor shoes inside and nobody says anything."

"That is a different kind of house," Maya said. "Some families don't mind."

Pip wrote that down too, with a small frown that meant the information was interesting but complicated.

"Why do humans eat breakfast food only in the morning? Eggs and toast, I mean. Why not at dinner?"

"Actually," Maya said, "some people do eat eggs at dinner."

Pip looked shocked and immediately started writing again.

In return, Pip told Maya things that she found just as interesting.

The small people had excellent memories, and Pip had been taught the complete history of Midori Elementary School from the school's own records and from older small people who remembered the past.

"The big tree on the left side of the playground was planted in 1952," Pip told her one afternoon.

"A group of third-grade children planted it together because their teacher had become very ill and could not come to school anymore."

"They wanted to grow something that would still be there long after the teacher had gone."

Maya looked at the tree differently after that.

She had walked past it every day without knowing its story.

Pip also told her about the school's underground.

There were roots from the old trees that had grown into the spaces between the walls, making natural pathways.

The small people's twelve classrooms were connected by these root-passages, so that on cold days they never had to go outside to move between rooms.

Pip also told her about family.

Pip's best friend was named Riku, who was very good at drawing and was always making small pictures on scraps of paper.

Pip's older sister was named Sora, and she had already finished school and was now training to become a language teacher.

Pip's favorite food was a tiny sliver of sweet chestnut that fell from the big trees in early autumn, roasted over a very small fire.

Maya learned that Pip had been frightened the first time they met, but had decided to speak because, as Pip explained seriously, "I had been watching you walk around the building alone for two days. Nobody should have to walk alone for that long."

Maya had not known anyone was watching.

The thought made her feel both surprised and strangely comforted.

She had also been keeping a secret.

She had not told Yuki about Pip.

She had not told anyone at school.

She had not told her mother or her brother.

The small people trusted her, and she felt the weight of that trust like something real and important.

But Yuki had noticed that Maya went somewhere every morning before class.

"Where do you go?" Yuki asked one Tuesday, catching up to her in the hallway after morning assembly.

"Just walking," Maya said quickly. "I like to look at the old part of the building. The stone walls are interesting."

Yuki looked at her with a calm, thoughtful expression.

"Okay," she said, and did not push further.

But Maya could tell that Yuki did not fully believe her.

One Thursday morning, Maya arrived at the old stairs and Pip was not there.

The space was dark and quiet.

She waited for five minutes, then ten.

The air was cold and she could see her breath.

The bell was going to ring soon.

"Pip?" she called softly, barely louder than a whisper.

No answer.

No light.

She went to class feeling unsettled.

At lunch, she tried again, walking quickly to the back of the building and crouching down.

Still no sign of Pip.

The space was empty and the leaves inside were undisturbed.

She spent the afternoon trying to concentrate on her schoolwork, but her mind kept going back to the dark space under the stairs.

That afternoon, just before the end-of-school bell, she saw a faint light at the entrance of the space.

She had almost stopped checking, but something made her look one more time.

She crouched down quickly.

It was not Pip.

It was a different small person—clearly older, with silver hair pulled back neatly, wearing a dark green jacket with small round buttons.

The person's face was calm and serious, with lines around the eyes that suggested many years of careful thinking.

"I am Teacher Hana," the small woman said.

Her voice was like the sound of dry leaves in a gentle wind—quiet but clear.

"I have come to speak with you directly."

"Of course," Maya said, keeping her voice low. "What happened? Where is Pip?"

"Pip is safe and well," Teacher Hana said. "Please do not worry about that."

She paused, folding her small hands together in front of her. "But I must tell you that our community had a meeting last night. A long one. Some of the older small people are concerned."

"Concerned about me?" Maya felt a cold feeling in her stomach.

"Yes." Teacher Hana looked at her steadily. "We have kept the school secret for a very long time. Three hundred and forty-two years, to be exact."

"In all that time, only four humans have ever discovered us."

"Three of those four told other humans what they had seen—sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident."

"Each time, many more humans came. They were curious and not always kind. We had to leave and find a new place to build."

Maya said nothing.

She was listening carefully.

"Building a new home takes many years," Teacher Hana continued.

"We must find the right space, strengthen the walls, grow the garden, connect the root-passages."

"The children miss many months of school. The elders find it very hard to move."

"We have been very happy here for a long time." She looked at Maya directly. "We do not want to leave."

"I would never tell anyone," Maya said.

She heard her own voice come out more strongly than she had expected.

"I have not told a single person. Not my classmates, not my mother, not anyone."

"You say that now," Teacher Hana said, gently but seriously.

"But you are young. And humans sometimes share secrets without meaning to."

"A few words to a friend. A story told at dinner. A slip of the tongue. And then others come, and we must leave, and we lose everything we have built."

Maya was quiet for a moment, thinking hard.

She understood the concern.

It was not unfair.

She had only known about the school for a few weeks, and it had already been difficult to keep quiet when Yuki asked questions.

"What can I do to show you that you can trust me?" Maya asked.

Teacher Hana looked at her for a long time, the way someone looks when they are trying to read something written in a language they have almost learned.

"I will speak to the others tonight," she said at last. "We will make a decision together. Come back the day after tomorrow, in the morning."

Then she stepped back into the darkness, and the light disappeared.

Maya stood up slowly, brushed the dirt from her knees, and walked home, wondering what the small people would decide.

Two days passed.

Maya did not go to the old stairs.

She had been told to wait, and she waited.

But the waiting was hard.

She found it difficult to think about other things.

She sat through her classes and did her homework and answered when her mother asked her questions at dinner, but inside she was thinking about the meeting, about Teacher Hana's serious face, about whether the small people would decide to trust her or not.

She also felt something that was harder to name.

She was angry at herself.

Not for anything she had done yet, but for the fact that she could feel how easily she might have told someone, if she had not been careful.

She had almost told Yuki.

She had wanted to, many times.

It would have felt so good to share the amazing secret with someone.

On the second evening, she sat at her desk and opened her journal.

Maya had kept a journal since she was seven.

It was a private place where she wrote down things that were happening and things that she was thinking about.

She found that writing helped her understand her own feelings, which were sometimes confusing and hard to sort out in her head.

She began to write.

She wrote about the small school, about Pip, about the glowing stone and the tiny classrooms and the root-passages.

She wrote about Teacher Hana and the meeting.

She wrote about how worried she felt, and how much she wanted the small people to trust her, and why she thought it mattered.

She wrote until her hand was tired, and then she felt a little better, and she closed the journal and left it on her desk and went to have a bath.

When she came back to her room, Kenta was sitting in her chair.

Kenta was five years old and very curious about everything.

He had learned to open doors quietly, which was useful for surprising people, and he did this often.

He was sitting at Maya's desk, holding her closed journal, looking at the cover.

"Who is Pip?" he asked, looking up at her.

Maya went cold all over.

"Give me that," she said, taking the journal from him quickly.

Her hands were shaking a little.

"This is private, Kenta. You should not touch my things."

"I only read a little bit," Kenta said. He did not look sorry. He looked interested. "Is Pip a little tiny person? Like in a story?"

"It is a story," Maya said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. "Something I am making up. It is not real."

Kenta nodded slowly, the way he did when he was not really convinced but had lost interest.

"Okay," he said, and jumped off the chair and ran out of the room to watch television.

Maya sat on her bed and held the journal tightly against her chest.

She had written everything.

His name, the school, Teacher Hana, the meeting, the history of three hundred and forty-two years.

Everything that had been trusted to her, written in clear words in a book she had left on her desk where anyone could read it.

Kenta was five and probably thought it was just a story.

But he might mention it to her mother.

He might remember it and ask about it later, in front of guests, or at school, or anywhere.

She sat there for a long time, holding the journal, feeling terrible.

She had not done anything wrong yet, exactly.

But she had been careless with something important, and that felt almost as bad.

Maya went to school the next morning feeling more anxious than she had felt since her first day.

She walked straight to the old stone stairs without stopping.

To her great relief, Pip was there, sitting on the small smooth pebble near the entrance, holding the glowing stone.

"Pip!" She crouched down quickly. "I am so glad to see you. I was really worried."

Pip looked up at her seriously.

"I am sorry I was not here for two days. Teacher Hana said I had to stay inside while the adults talked. I did not want to, but I had to follow the rules."

"I understand," Maya said.

She took a breath. "Pip, I have to tell you something. I made a mistake."

Maya explained everything.

About the journal, and how she had written down everything she knew about the small people, and how she had left it on her desk, and how Kenta had come into her room and read some of it.

She did not leave anything out.

Her voice was steady, but her hands were pressed together hard in her lap.

When she finished, Pip was very still and very quiet for a long moment.

"Did he understand what he read?" Pip asked finally. The voice was calm, not angry, which somehow made Maya feel worse.

"I don't think so," Maya said honestly.

"He is five. He thought it was a story I was making up. He did not seem interested after I said that."

She paused. "But I cannot be completely sure. He might say something to my mother. He might remember it and ask about it later."

Pip looked down at the glowing stone.

"I should have been more careful," Maya said. "I know that. I was writing to help myself think, and I forgot that the words were not just mine. I am really sorry."

Pip was quiet for another long moment.

Then Pip looked up at her with a thoughtful expression. "Why are you telling me this?" Pip asked.

"You could have said nothing. We would probably never have known about the journal."

Maya met Pip's eyes.

"Because you are my friend," she said.

"And because you trusted me with something very important. I do not want to lie to you. Even if the truth is difficult."

Pip did not speak for a moment.

Then Pip stood up and said, "Wait here. Please do not go anywhere."

Pip disappeared into the dark space.

Maya sat on the cold ground and waited, watching the entrance.

Her heart was beating fast, but she felt calmer than she had all morning.

Whatever the small people decided, she had told the truth.

That felt right, even if the result was hard.

After about ten minutes, Pip came back.

Teacher Hana was walking behind, moving carefully across the earth floor with her hands clasped.

Teacher Hana looked at Maya for a long time.

Then she said, "You did not need to tell us about the journal."

"I know," Maya said.

"It was a difficult thing to do."

"Yes."

"Most humans, in this situation, would have stayed quiet and hoped for the best."

Maya nodded.

She did not say anything.

Teacher Hana looked at her for a moment more.

Then the small woman smiled.

It was a small, careful smile, but it was real and warm.

"We have made our decision," she said.

"You may continue to visit. You may speak with our students and answer our questions. You may know about our school."

She paused. "And next time—please write in code, or keep your journal somewhere safer."

"I will," Maya said, feeling a huge wave of relief. "I promise. And thank you."

"Do not thank us," Teacher Hana said quietly. "You made it easy to trust you. That is your own doing."

After that morning, things changed—but slowly, and in a good way, like seasons turning.

Teacher Hana began to join some of Maya and Pip's morning conversations, sitting in the entrance of the small school with a tiny cup of something warm in her hands and asking her own questions.

These were different from Pip's questions.

They were less about facts and more about experience.

"What do you find most difficult about being new somewhere?" she asked one morning.

Maya thought about it properly before answering.

"Not knowing the invisible rules," she said.

"Every place has rules that nobody writes down. Which hallways are quiet and which are noisy. Which teachers are strict and which are kind. Which lunch table belongs to which group."

"At my old school I knew all of these, and here I have to learn them again from the beginning."

"We understand this very well," Teacher Hana said.

"When a family group moves to a new building, the young children must spend the first season simply watching. They do not attend classes yet. They only observe."

"Because the invisible rules of each place are different, and they must be learned before anything else."

"How long does it take?" Maya asked.

"For a young one? About three months. For an elder? Sometimes a full year." Teacher Hana sipped from her tiny cup.

"You have only been here for a few weeks. You are doing well."

Maya had not expected to hear that.

She felt something loosen a little in her chest, like a knot coming slightly undone.

A week later, she finally had a real conversation with Yuki.

Not about the small people—she kept that secret carefully, and it became easier to keep it as time went on—but about herself.

About Osaka, and her old friends, and how much she missed walking by the sea in the evenings, and how strange it was to live in a town without the sound of the water.

Yuki listened with her full attention, the way some people do and many people do not.

"I came from Hokkaido three years ago," Yuki said when Maya had finished.

"When I first arrived here, I cried every night for two weeks. I thought I would never feel at home."

She paused. "Now this is home. I do not think about Hokkaido every day. Only sometimes, when it snows."

Maya thought about what Teacher Hana had said, and what Yuki had said, and how they were the same idea in different words.

She thought about how surprising it was to get the same lesson from a tiny person under a staircase and a girl with cat stickers on her pencil case.

As the weeks passed, she stopped feeling like the new girl.

She began to know which teachers loved questions and which preferred quiet.

She learned which tree in the playground had the best branches for climbing, and which corner of the library had the most comfortable chair, and that the school lunch on Thursdays was always rice with plum and she liked it very much.

She also began to know the small school.

Not everything—Teacher Hana said there were things that humans were not ready to know yet—but many things.

She learned that the garden at the back of the school had twelve kinds of flowers, all grown from seeds collected under the big trees.

She learned that the library had books copied by hand from the human books in the school above, written in letters too small for human eyes to read without a magnifying glass.

She learned that on cold winter evenings, all forty-seven students gathered in the largest room and one of the elder teachers told stories from long ago.

One morning in late spring, Pip showed her something new.

Near the entrance to the school, Pip had found a piece of natural clear stone that was perfectly smooth, and had placed it in the wall like a tiny window.

Through it, you could see the playground—the children running between the two big trees, the sky white and bright behind the school roof, the shadow of the building stretching long across the grass.

"I found this stone near the stream," Pip said. "I wanted a window that faced outside. So I could see the humans, and also so I could see the trees."

Maya crouched beside the tiny window and looked through it.

The world on the other side was the same as always—the same playground, the same trees, the same children.

But knowing that there was a school behind the wall, full of small people who had been watching and learning and caring about the world for three hundred years, made everything look different.

Larger.

Richer.

More carefully made.

"Thank you for showing me your school," Maya said.

"Thank you for helping us with ours," Pip replied.

Maya looked through the tiny window at the big trees that someone had planted in 1952, and she thought about how many things in the world had a long story that most people did not know.

The school bell rang above her, clear and bright.

She stood up and brushed the earth from her knees.

"See you tomorrow," she said.

"See you tomorrow," Pip said.

And Maya walked to class, through the warm spring morning, feeling—for the first time since leaving Osaka—completely and entirely at home.