The Chronicles of Ether Drive

                              Chapter 5  The Spare Sun At the House of Winds, the sun had finally emerged from behind the clouds with a cheerful arrogance, following a long, rainy night that had left behind a physical and mental exhaustion difficult to shake off. Thirsty, it evaporated the droplets from the windowsills and the glass top of the wrought-iron table, while Anemo, barefoot on the still-damp grass of Ether Drive, stretched his stiff neck. He listened to his vertebrae clicking discreetly to the rhythm of a fado melody drifting through the half-open door of number 49. Beside him, a coffee with a pinch of pink salt, cinnamon, and a thick collar of whipped cream promised to resuscitate the spirit. The furry residents had already occupied their strategic points: Aeolus watched everything discreetly from a bed of yellow daffodils and tulips; Mistral was sprawled in the sun on the porch swing; and S...

Chapter 4  The Plush Twin Anemo left the Littlepace shopping centre almost at a run. Outside, the sky was the color of lead, and a fine, cold rain had begun to fall, stinging his cheeks. The walk home, usually a ten-minute stroll, now felt like a survival marathon. He glanced nervously left and right; he wasn't afraid of the few passersby, but of a possible encounter with  Aura , his mother, who the pharmacist had mentioned was "in the area." The main problem was at his feet. On one, he wore a white sneaker, and on the other... the plush dog slipper, brown, soaked, with a pink tongue hanging out insolently. Anemo walked with an exaggerated stride along the edge of the pavement, trying to mask the "beast" among the yellow tulips and daffodils lining the road. With every step, the water-logged plush made a sickening sound:  "Squelch!" Suddenly, out of nowhere, SHE appeared.  Daisy Queen . Plump, elegant, and under a giant umbrella, Daisy blocked the pave...

          Chapter 3   The Ravaged Pie and the Monogram After the door slammed behind Mrs. Gale, a strange silence settled over the house, interrupted only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and the divine scent wafting from the writing desk. The package wrapped in brown paper seemed to pulse with heat. Anemo Gale stood lost in thought for a moment, with only one slipper on, but a new idea about the "Glove Thief" flooded his mind. He sat at the typewriter and began to type at a dizzying speed, completely forgetting his hunger. He was in a state of possession difficult to explain in words. But someone was not indifferent at all. Mistral, the black cat, climbed down from the bookshelf with the movement of a ballerina. He approached the pie package and, through a swaying dance, began to scratch the rustling wrapper. Scritch, scratch... the sound was hypnotic. The younger and "unripe" Sirocco took a running start and, with one leap, landed with his cla...

 Chapter 2 A stormy visit Just as Anemo Gale was about to use his newly recovered spoon to stir his artichoke tea, an unexpected sound rang out. Bang! Bang! Someone was pounding hard with the bronze lion-shaped knocker on the brown door. Mistral startled on the windowsill, pricking up his black ears. "What an unceremonious visit!" he meowed, wrinkling his nose as if he had smelled something old. Sirocco leaped like an orange ball toward the window, knocking over a stack of envelopes on his way. "Un-cere-mo? Is it a big bird? Does it have feathers?" he asked, trying to peer over the edge of the glass. Aeolus, who was watching everything through his magic lens from behind a mug, hurried to explain: "No, Sirocco. Unceremonious means something that doesn't follow the rules of politeness. Like someone knocking too loudly or showing up without a word. Like when you jump on Anemo’s belly while he’s sleeping." Anemo Gale, clumsy as usual, tripped over his own ...

  Chapter 1 The Mystery of the Silver Spoon The House of Winds If you listen closely, beyond the drowsy hum of the motorway that flows like an unseen river at the edge of the neighborhood, you will hear the silence of Littlepace. It is a gentle silence, smelling of mown grass and afternoon rain. But if you turn past the earth-toned houses and walk parallel to Hunters Run, you will reach a street where shadows seem to have a life of their own. Welcome to Ether Drive. At number 49, in a sturdy brown-brick house, lives a man who spends more time in his books than in his own living room. His name is Anemo Gale. Anemo is a crime novelist, but he is so absent-minded that he sometimes searches for his glasses while they are perched right on his nose. “Where has the plot vanished to?” he often sighs, staring longingly into the fridge which he has, of course, left wide open. What Anemo doesn’t know is that the “plot” of his stories isn't lost. It wanders right under his nose, on four velvet...