Zenon, a cactus with a taste for philology and secrecy, runs a clandestine houseplant club. When an unexpected newcomer arrives, one ordinary night in the block of flats turns odd in a hurry.
The third-floor living room on Red Pyjamas Street was asleep, except for Zenon. He stood on the sill in his terracotta pot, a cactus with an overdeveloped imagination and thorns so sharp they seemed to quote the classics on principle. He knew every creak in the block, every rumour in the stairwell, and every weakness in Mrs Janina's schedule.
That was why, every Thursday night, when Mrs Janina went off to yoga, the club met in secret. Orchids drifted down from the shelf with aristocratic sighs. Boniface the ficus unfolded his leaves like a man reluctantly attending a family dinner. Three kitchen ferns arrived whispering to one another, and a balcony geranium came in smelling faintly of rain and scandal. Zenon, as chairman of Roots of Reason, cleared his prickles and announced, "Long live chlorophyll!"
They were halfway through an argument about whether dust counted as a hostile climate when the doorbell rang.
Nobody moved. It had never rung at this hour, not once in the long, watered life of the club. Then the corridor outside gave a soft rustle, as if something had brushed against the wallpaper. Boniface went pale, which for a ficus was practically a public collapse. The ferns began whispering about pot-busters and other legends no one admitted believing.
Zenon tightened his grip on the windowsill. The door handle turned, slowly, with the deliberate confidence of someone who knew exactly where the secrets were kept. The door opened a few centimetres farther, and something very unexpected stepped inside.