For the eyes of Mother Only

T-Minus 48 Hours to Operation: Golden Brie

Dearest Mother,

I write this by the flickering glow of a discarded LED, huddled in a hollowed-out wall cavity behind the refrigerator. The humming of the great machine vibrates through my ribs, a constant reminder that we are not alone in this house. Sarge says we move out at midnight.

The objective is simple: a wedge of aged cheddar, sitting on the kitchen counter, territory we've dubbed ‘The Dead Zone.’ It’s beautiful, Mother. Pure, golden, and completely out of reach. We call it ‘The Ryan’; just a fun nickname the squad decided on.

The squad is nervous. Corporal Whiskers hasn't stopped twitching since yesterday. Mother, I’m sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I lost a tail-tip to a snap-trap three weeks ago. I can still feel the ghost of it when the wind whistles through the floorboards.

I miss your nest. I miss the smell of dry grass and the way the rain sounded on the roof of our old burrow. Here, the rain is just a leak in the ceiling and the wind is the hum of the air conditioner.

Pray for us, Mother. Pray for the cheese.

T-Minus 12 Hours to Operation: Golden Brie

Mother,

We crossed the Great Carpet Plains today. It was a disaster. The Giant, the male one, dropped a cracker crumb near the sofa. Sergeant-Major Barnaby thought it was a signal. He ordered a full-squad advance. We were exposed for six minutes. Six minutes of absolute silence and terror.

Then the Vacuum came.

I've never heard a sound like that. It was a roar that shook the foundations of the world. The suction pulled at the air itself, dragging three of our scouts toward the maw. We dragged them back by their tails, screaming, barely getting them behind a skirting board in time. One of the boys—Pip, you remember Pip—he didn't make it. The vacuum caught his leg. We couldn't get to him in time.

I don't want to think about that. I won't. I'm thinking about the cheese. I'm thinking about you.

Sarge says we're close. Tomorrow night, we make our move.

T-Minus 0 Hours: The Dead Zone

Mother,

I'm writing this while huddled behind a crumb-covered baseboard, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my whiskers. We're in position.

The kitchen is a war zone. The cat, that scarred, one-eared monster they call 'The Shadow', is patrolling the tiles. One wrong step, one misplaced whisker, and it's over. The squad is in a tight wedge formation. Barnaby is point. Whiskers is rear guard. I'm the one carrying the hook, a bent paperclip we salvaged from a drawer.

We can see it. The Ryan. It sits on a marble island, glowing under the under-cabinet light like a beacon of hope in a world of darkness. It's beautiful. It's everything.

Sarge just gave the signal. A single, sharp squeak.

If this letter reaches you, know that I didn't run. I didn't falter. I walked into the dead zone and I faced the monster. And if I don't make it back… well, just know that I died for the cheese.

I love you, Mother.

Your son, Squeaks.