Paddington and the First Night in the City

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All these were small signs, and in each one, the city seemed to say, "We see you." Paddington stopped in front of a large house with lit windows. The warm glow behind the curtains reminded him of firefly evenings in the jungle—only here, nothing was disorganized: the curtains fell perfectly, the steps gleamed dry, and on the windowsill stood a pot of rosemary, fragrant in the air. He took a deep breath. In his pocket was a carefully wrapped jar of jam and a folded piece of paper containing a brief piece of advice he'd been given for his journey: be friendly, ask properly, never push. He stroked it with his paw as if plucking courage from paper. Tiredness crept in. Paddington sat down on the steps, laid his suitcase beside him, and listened. A horn sounded from the river, a tram rattled in the distance, and in an open window a pianist played a delicate étude. "There are many languages," he thought, "and the city speaks them all at once." He imagined Waldemar perhaps sitting now under an apple tree, writing quietly in his notebook. This made him calm and sad at the same time. Promises were stories that hadn't yet had a final line. Just as he decided to get up and ask for the famous Mrs. Bramley, a gust of wind blew through the avenue. A scarf flew from a stroller, rolling across the street like a red leaf. Paddington jumped up, caught it, and returned it to his mother. "Thank you very much," she said, "you see, Emma, the gentleman is very thoughtful." The girl waved. "Good night, Mr. Bear!" The greeting was small, but it weighed more than the bag. Then the front door opened. A lady with a gray bun and a smile reminiscent of steaming tea stepped out. "Excuse me," she said, "I saw you sitting by our fence. May I help you?" Paddington bowed. "Please excuse the inconvenience. I'm new here. I'm told Lamp Street is friendly." "It usually is," the lady replied. "And it becomes even friendlier when guests come inside instead of freezing outside." She held the door wider open. "My name is Bramley. Come in." Paddington picked up his suitcase, adjusted his red hat, and stepped over the threshold. The hallway smelled of silk, wood polish, and a hint of orange marmalade, and from somewhere, dishes clattered. "Just so you know," said Mrs. Bramley as she left, "with us, if you ask politely, you always get something warm—be it a seat, a plate, or a word." "That's very kind," replied Paddington, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. In the kitchen, a kettle sat on the stove and sang. Someone laughed in the next room. The world moved a step closer. And as the front door closed behind him, he knew: This was only the beginning. The city had seen him. Now he would learn to read it—street by street, sound by sound, person by person. And somewhere out there, Waldemar was writing his lines. One day their stories would meet again, at a crossroads that was already patiently waiting for them.