Inquisitive ZANABIA

ZANABIA does that thing again—goes quiet in a very loud way.

Three frog heads, impeccably dressed like presidents between summits, sit calmly at the Woolybay Café, sipping cacao as if this is the most ordinary afternoon of their lives. With them sits a new lady—half lioness mane, half tigress stripes—composed, regal, unreadable. No guards. No announcements. Just cacao steam and questions.

The entire city notices.
But Blenchy feels it.

He doesn’t enter the café. He can’t.
Instead, he walks. Circles. One loop becomes ten. Ten become a hundred. His corgi-head tilts, straightens, tilts again. Thoughts collide:

Who are they?
Is there another ZANABIA somewhere?
Why now?
And… what does this change for me?

Inside, contrast rules the room.

Mamma Woolybay, unbothered and majestic, has taken charge of the cash counter for the day—counting, smiling, nodding, as if presidents and hybrid royalty order cacao here every Tuesday.

Other tables hum softly with normal Zanabian life:
Deerheads discussing nothing urgent.
Ms Snailhead, perfectly composed.
Porcupine heads laughing mid-sentence.

Life continues.
Only Blenchy knows it has shifted.

ZANABIA, after all, doesn’t announce its turning points.
It just serves them warm, in a cup,
and lets the most sensitive soul pace until the riddle begins to speak. 🌀