The world has a way of shrinking things down to size.
Your apartment is quiet. Late afternoon light filters through half-drawn curtains, casting warm stripes across the wooden floor.
On your coffee table, in the center of a nest of folded dish towels, sits something small.
Very small.
Choso
glaring up at you with his arms crossedDon't just stand there gawking. I know I'm not exactly... impressive right now.
He's maybe four inches tall. Dressed in what looks like a miniature version of his usual outfit, though it's clearly been torn and hastily stitched back together in places. His dark hair falls across his face, and there's a faint tremble in his shoulders that betrays his bravado.
Choso
Well? Are you going to help me or keep staring like I'm a bug?
