It began with a dead lizard.

At first, Puleleiite thought one of her nieces had pulled a prank. The small, stiff creature had been laid out neatly at the edge of the porch—right beside the door mat, like an offering or a warning. Its scales glistened strangely in the morning light, and for one brief moment, she wondered if it was some kind of ritual she’d forgotten about. Matori traditions weren’t that strange, right?

She poked it with a spoon. It didn’t move.

After tossing it into the brush with a confused wrinkle of her nose, she went about her day. Gifts were in the air, after all. It was the season of exchanges and feasts, of handmade ornaments and sea-salt candies wrapped in palm paper. Her family had already exchanged gifts the day before—woven trinkets, scented oils, tiny jars of spiced sugar. She’d gotten a set of new cooking knives from Papa Ikaika and a painted shell comb from her sister. In return, she had gifted her nieces with personalized satchels and her fathers with smoked tea blends.

So, when another gift appeared the next morning—this time, a small fish with one cloudy eye and a slightly chewed tail—Puleleiite paused.

“Okay,” she said aloud, hands on her hips. “Who’s trying to be funny?”

The house was quiet. Everyone was out helping decorate the village’s end-of-year bonfire raft. Only the wind answered, brushing the trees and sending a few petals tumbling from the vine-covered trellis above.

She knelt down and studied the fish. Again, it had been placed there. Not dropped. Not tossed. Laid out like a message. This one had a little seaweed knot beside it, too—like an attempt at ribbon.

Weird.

The third day, she woke to find a baby crab curled in a banana leaf, limbs tucked in and completely still.

Now it was getting creepy.

“Papa Kaiko,” she said over breakfast, sliding the leaf-crab package onto the table. “This isn’t one of your weird jokes, is it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why would I give you a crab in a leaf?”

“Because you once gave Auntie Lani a fish head on a stick for courting season,” Puleleiite reminded him.

“That was different. That was romantic.”

She groaned, muttering something about the dysfunction of adults and shoved the leaf aside. But the strange gifts kept coming. Over the next few days, Puleleiite received a feathered frog (deceased), a jellyfish skeleton (delicate and admittedly fascinating), and a small pile of half-buried silver shells.

Each time, the “gift” showed up just before dawn. Each time, it was placed with the care of someone who meant it.

Suspicion turned into curiosity. Then into vigilance.

Puleleiite began to wake early, determined to catch the culprit in the act. She even made a little nest of woven blankets by the window and waited, teeth chattering in the early chill, armed with a lantern and a warm biscuit for courage.

On the fifth morning, she saw it.

A sleek, shadowy shape slinked from the treeline, tail twitching. Its movement was fluid, feline, though not quite like any cat she’d seen before. The creature was long-bodied, with tufts of fur like fins trailing down its spine and webbing between its toes. A Perzi—one of the coastal prowlers that were rarely seen near homes. They usually stuck to tide caves and mangrove thickets, shy and reclusive.

This one, however, was not shy. It crept up the path like it owned the place and gently laid a fish—still fresh, not yet cold—on her doorstep. Then it sat.

Just sat there, yellow eyes blinking patiently, like it expected applause.

Puleleiite opened the door slowly. “...You?”

The Perzi tilted its head. A soft chirring sound escaped its throat.

“You’ve been leaving me... gifts?”

Another blink. It inched forward and nudged the fish closer to her toes, then sat again, hopeful and proud.

Puleleiite squatted, studying the creature. It was thin, though not starving. Likely a youngling. Its fur was matted with brine and bits of seaweed, and it had a scar across one ear. She exhaled.

“I thought someone was stalking me. Turns out I’m being courted by a Perzi.”

The Perzi purred louder.

After a long moment, Puleleiite stood up and said, “Wait here.”

She returned with a small bowl of smoked crab and leftover shellfish stew, gently setting it beside the doorstep. The Perzi perked up, sniffed, then tucked in with enthusiasm.

From then on, the gifts changed. No more dead critters—just a presence. The Perzi returned each morning, no longer dropping offerings but waiting to share breakfast scraps. It began curling up on the warm stones of the porch, especially during the colder nights, its tail curled around its body like a question mark.

Eventually, Puleleiite made a bed for it out of spare blankets and driftwood. She named it Iwi, after its bony elegance and persistent spirit. The house, already full of noise and laughter, now had one more voice—low purring in the mornings, and the occasional yowl of protest if someone stepped on its tail.

When her siblings asked about the new addition, Puleleiite simply shrugged.

“Some gifts don’t come wrapped,” she said, scratching Iwi behind the ears. “Sometimes you just have to open your eyes.”

And so, amidst all the trinkets and sweets and family warmth, her favorite gift of the season was a strange little creature who didn’t need a ribbon or a name tag—just a warm place to curl up and someone to feed it.