Harry had never felt so small. Not just small like when he once stood on tiptoe in front of the mirror and wished he were taller, but impossibly, terrifyingly small—an ant's size in a world that had suddenly grown monstrous. The familiar comfort of his own home now pressed down on him like a great oppressive weight, every corner transformed into a vast alien landscape.
The rug beneath his feet, once nothing more than a soft mat where he tossed his toys, stretched endlessly like a rolling terrain of knotted hills and tangled valleys. Fibers that once tickled his toes were now towering ropes, each as thick as his arm, rising from the ground and twisting in unpredictable directions. Just the simple act of taking a step forward demanded courage—every movement was a climb, every inch a struggle. He could feel the threads prickling against his skin, their softness turned into an abrasive surface when seen up close.
Panic set his heart racing. His only thought—the only thought that made sense—was to return to normal. Somehow. Somehow. His gaze darted around the enormous room, searching for salvation. The furniture loomed like mountains; the coffee table stretched high above like a cliff face, and in the far distance, he spotted it—the glowing panel on the floor where the squirrel had so carelessly tumbled against the remote. The device! It was there, but impossibly far away. From this scale, it was like looking at a golden city at the top of a mountain. How could he ever reach it? How could he even imagine climbing something so far out of reach?
He pressed his tiny palms against his face, breathing quickly, fighting against the surge of helplessness. Then, before he could plan a single step, nature intervened.
A sudden gust of wind roared through the house, as if the world itself decided to taunt him. Somewhere far above—what was once only a window, an everyday rectangle of glass—now yawned open like a vast canyon mouth. The wind swept in with unrestrained force, carrying with it dust motes and flower pollen. At his scale, those harmless specks were boulders swirling in a storm.
The gust struck him hard, knocking him sideways. He stumbled, arms flailing, before instinct made him clutch at the thick strand of rug beneath him. The rope-like fiber vibrated against his body as the wind howled through the room. His black hair, once just lightly tousled by breezes in the garden, now whipped violently around his face, stinging his cheeks and eyes.
"Hold on, hold on!" he whispered desperately to himself, but his voice—no more than a faint squeak now—was drowned instantly. His throat burned as he screamed louder, though it didn't matter. Nobody could hear.
His fingers burned with strain as he clung, knuckles white, tiny body plastered against the fiber strand. But the rug trembled, and the wind only grew stronger. His grip began to loosen. His nails scraped across the woven surface, leaving faint streaks of pain as his strength gave way.
"No… no, please!" His words were lost, but his terror was not.
The inevitable came with brutal suddenness. His hands slipped.
He was airborne, ripped from the safety of the rug and spun helplessly into the vast gale. His stomach lurched as his body twisted and tumbled, flipping head over heels through the air. The familiar living room warped into a blur of shapes and colors—the couch became a dark cliff spinning past, the window a bright rectangle rushing closer and closer. He flailed, tried to grasp at anything, but the air itself was too strong.
Then came the final push. The gust hurled him through the open window. For a heartbeat, he was weightless, suspended in the sunlight. Then the world tilted violently. He fell.
Three stories down.
He screamed, a sound no louder than a cricket's chirp. His tiny arms reached out as if something might catch him. The wind carried him out over the garden, away from the house, until gravity seized him and dragged him down, down, down.
He landed not with a crash, but with a muffled thud upon the soil. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He lay sprawled on the ground, chest heaving, staring upward at blades of grass that soared like towering skyscrapers above him.
The garden—once his playground—was no longer familiar. It was a wilderness. A jungle. The shrubs, once no higher than his shoulders, now loomed like massive forests stretching to the sky. Flowers, gentle and pretty when seen from afar, hung overhead like enormous glowing lanterns. Droplets of dew, scattered across the blades of grass, shimmered in the sunlight, each as large as a basketball, each reflecting his frightened face in distorted mirrors.
Harry sat up slowly, dazed, his tiny hands sinking into the rough grains of soil—grains now the size of pebbles to him. He turned in all directions, but everything looked the same: the towering grass, the walls of bushes, the looming trees.
He was lost. Not just in his garden. Lost in a world that used to be his home.