Only the Little Mouse remained.

From that night on, the other mice—what few remained—called him not just duro de cazar , but el Rey del Rincón . The King of the Corner. Not because he was strong, but because he knew that the hardest prey to catch is the one who never takes the bait you want him to take.

Each night, the Little Mouse did something unexpected. He didn’t go for the bait. Instead, he nibbled just enough from the dog’s bowl to survive, then vanished. He never took the same path twice. Sometimes he traveled through the ceiling beams. Sometimes he swam through the drainage pipe. Once, he even clung upside down under a bucket the Farmer carried into the house.

The Little Mouse waited an hour. Then two. Then, when the Farmer’s snoring filled the house, he crept out, took the crust, and disappeared back into the wall.

And if you listen closely on winter nights, you can still hear him scratching softly inside the walls—smiling, patient, and free.

The cat gave up first. Then the dog lost interest. Finally, the Farmer sat at his kitchen table, rubbed his tired eyes, and laughed.

One winter, food grew scarce. The Farmer, tired of the mice stealing his grain, set up three traps: a classic snap trap near the cheese, a sticky glue trap by the flour sack, and a newfangled electronic zapper by the breadbox.

“You win, little one,” he said, and left a single crust of bread on the floor by the hearth—no trap, no trick. Just bread.