But this feels different. Bigger than facts or trades.
"Maya showed me..." I pause, pen hovering over the English notebook. What did she show me exactly? That humans could surprise you? That community grows in unexpected soil? That someone could look at my tusks and massive frame and see something worth fighting for?
"Maya showed me that home isn't where you're born, but where people choose to stand beside you."
There.The core truth, waiting to be translated into six languages.
Hungarian: "Maya megmutatta, hogy az otthon nem ott van, ahol születtél, hanem ahol az emberek úgy döntenek, hogy melletted állnak."
Spanish: "Maya me mostró que el hogar no es donde naces, sino donde la gente elige estar a tu lado."
German: "Maya zeigte mir, dass Heimat nicht der Ort ist, wo man geboren wird, sondern wo Menschen sich entscheiden, an deiner Seite zu stehen."
Each translation carries slightly different emotional nuances. The German version sounds more philosophical, the Spanish more passionate, the Hungarian more poetic. But they all point toward the same impossible truth: I'm not fighting this alone anymore.
Sir Pouncealot stretches across both my feet, pinning me to the chair with surprising weight for such a medium-sized cat. His purr intensifies as I continue writing, as if he approves of midnight literary endeavors.
"You understand dedication," I tell him. "Patrolling this building every night, keeping everyone's doors properly supervised."
He opens one golden eye, regards me with feline wisdom, then returns to purring.
I flip to the French notebook. "Maya m'a montré que la maison n'est pas là où tu es né, mais là où les gens choisissent de se tenir à côté de toi."
The words blur slightly. I blink hard, refocus on the page. Tomorrow's hearing will determine whether I can stay in this country, but tonight already determined something more important: whether I belong in this building, with these people, near this woman who transforms noise complaints into love stories.
"In conclusion," I write in English, then cross it out. Too academic. Too professorial.
"Finally," I try instead. "Thank you for seeing past the tusks and finding the neighbor underneath."
Simple. Direct. True.
But each translation requires cultural adjustment. Some languages make the gratitude more formal, others more intimate. The Italian version sounds like poetry: "Grazie per aver guardato oltre le zanne e aver trovato il vicino che c'è sotto."
The Spanish feels warmer: "Gracias por ver más allá de los colmillos y encontrar al vecino que hay dentro."
Six notebooks. Six languages. One message:You made me human tonight.
Well, not human exactly. But you made mebelong.
Sir Pouncealot's purr deepens as my hand stills on the final line. Outside, the building settles into its late-night rhythm—water running in distant pipes, muffled television voices, the soft thud of someone's textbook hitting their floor in 2C.
Home sounds. Community sounds.
Maya sounds, from downstairs, as her chair creaks while she works on tomorrow's blog post. She's probably writing about tonight's potluck disaster, spinning Sir Pouncealot's chaos into heartwarming narrative. Her fingers flying across keys, cold brew within arm's reach, deadline pressure transforming into creative fuel.
My eyelids grow heavy. The hammer-shaped mug sits empty beside six notebooks filled with gratitude in six languages. Tomorrow I'll need to choose which version to read, which cultural approach will resonate best with neighbors who've already proven their kindness.
Tonight, though, I close my eyes and let exhaustion win.
I dream of the hearing. Not the immigration hearing—a different kind. Maya stands before a room full of faces I recognize: Ms. Cavanaugh, Mrs. Albion, Mr. Rodriguez, the college kids, Mrs. Patterson with Sir Pouncealot in her arms.
"We call Ursak Irontongue to present his case for citizenship," Maya announces, but she's wearing judicial robes that somehow also look like the sundress from our first coffee meeting.
"Your Honor," I begin, but my voice comes out in perfect English without the careful pronunciation I usually require. "I offer no case except this: thirty-seven neighbors chose to sign their names beside mine."
"Sustained," Ms. Cavanaugh calls from the jury box, though this isn't a trial that requires sustaining anything.
"Furthermore," I continue, "I have learned six ways to say 'I love you' in Maya's language, though I've only been brave enough to use one."
