The Hole in the Wall No one knew how long the hole had been there. It sat in the middle of an old brick wall, framed by weathered advertising posters torn by the wind, bleached by the sun, and reduced to brittle shreds by the rain. The wall had stood still for decades, as if forgotten by the rest of the world. But on one particular afternoon, somewhere between a never-ending gray and the barely perceptible light of a distant day, a circle appeared in its center. Not a crack, not a collapse—a clean, round cut. And through that cut, one could see. The boy no longer had a name, or he had lost it amid the alleys, the deserted streets, and the whispers of adults that always said, "Not our concern." His clothes were mere shadows of what they once were—scraps of paint long since gone. He sat down in front of the hole. To his right: a small, gray cat with an attentive gaze that sometimes purred, as if awakening memories. To his left: a shaggy dog ​​with sad eyes that rarely barked but was as loyal as a shadow. And ahead of them lay... something else. Through the hole, they could see no other side of the street, no backyard, and no hidden garden. There stood a plant—but not just any plant. Audrey II. Her head was spherical, covered in green fur that was more like spikes. Bright red spikes protruded from the center, like the hairstyle of a punk musician from a forgotten decade. Her mouth was wide open, grinning with a row of razor-sharp teeth, while delicate red threads—almost like tongues or mating calls—dangled from her lips and danced in the fog. The trunk wasn't a trunk, but a cord of muscle, crisscrossed with thick green veins, curved like the back of a lurking beast. She sat in a terracotta pot, from which wild vines crept—prickly leaves, whipping shoots, quivering tips that sometimes groped the air as if searching for... more. And although the surroundings seemed like a greenhouse of nightmares—with wisps of fog, dark ground, fallen leaves, and a distant hint of a forest whose shadows never faltered—it was still fascinating. Terrifying. Hypnotic. The boy didn't move. The cat purred louder. The dog whined softly. And Audrey II—she didn't speak, not like she used to in the "Little Shop of Horrors" stories, where she sang and screamed for meat. Here she was silent. But her eyes—tiny black pearls hidden between the spikes—seemed to blink. Watching. Expecting. The boy leaned forward slightly. "What is this?" he whispered, not aloud, but in his mind. And it was as if the plant answered him—not with words, but with a soft rustling, a rhythmic pulsing that sounded like a heartbeat. Like a promise. Or a temptation. He knew he shouldn't go in. Not through the hole. Not into that other world. But he was hungry. Not for food. For something else. For a place where you were seen. Where a shadow was more than what others left behind. Audrey II knew that. The mist on the ground rippled. The cat stood up and took a few steps closer to the hole. The dog yelped softly and looked at the boy. Pleadingly. But the boy stood up. And Audrey II smiled.