I was afraid.

  Not suddenly — without screaming, without panic. The fear came slowly, like cold that at first seems tolerable, and then you realize it is already inside you.

  I walked quickly toward my house.

  I urgently needed some physical exertion, something small but real, so my mind wouldn't explode.

  I dragged my Christmas tree into the house. It was small, but with roots, in a heavy pot. It was hard to carry, but I managed on my own. I set it in the living room, away from the radiator, straightened it, added soil. The tree smelled of cold, forest, and something unmistakably real — like a reminder that life was still moving forward in its usual way.

  I straightened up and listened.

  It was quiet.

  I was tired.

  And I was worried.

  I needed to talk to Phil. Not by texting, not in passing, not with Alexander present — but in person. Alone. Looking him in the eyes. Asking directly.

  I decided not to message Jo-Jo yet.

  He already had more than enough on his plate. And if I started talking about silhouettes in windows, rustling sounds, strange coincidences — he would think I had finally lost it. Besides... I didn't want to bother anyone.

  I went into the studio.

  I needed to work at least a little. Deadlines hadn't been canceled. A painting doesn't paint itself, even when strange things are happening around you. I stood at the easel, picked up a brush, made a few strokes — more out of stubbornness than inspiration.

  In the evening, a clear thought suddenly formed:

  I will go to Phil tomorrow.

  Without warning.

  And ask everything directly.

  Straight on.

  At eleven.

  Why eleven — I didn't know.

  It was simply the first time that came to mind.

  And for some reason, it felt right.

  That night I dreamed.

  White herons.

  Large, slow, almost unreal. They walked through my garden — calmly, majestically, as if they knew they were allowed to be there. Their feathers were pure white, bright even in shadow. They tilted their heads, looked at the ground, at me — without fear. The dream was surprisingly pleasant, warm, right. There was no anxiety in it. Only silence and the feeling that everything was in its proper place.

  In the morning, I woke up — and the dream was gone.

  As if someone had opened a window and let it fly out. What remained was a faint aftertaste, almost physical, and a clear understanding: today.

  I immediately remembered the plan.

  Eleven o'clock.

  No warning.

  In person.

  And then I thought: I can't go empty-handed.

  I walked through the house absentmindedly and suddenly remembered — chocolates. Those very ones, bought for Christmas. A box of exquisite, airy chocolates, almost weightless, with delicate filling. I had bought them specifically "just in case." Phil always treats me — tea, pastries, wafer rolls.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I'll go with chocolates, I decided.

  That would be right.

  Then I took deodorant.

  I put it in my bag — not deep, so I could reach it quickly. Not because I was planning to attack anyone. But because it was the only thing at hand that could blind, distract, buy a second. A sharp smell. A stupid, domestic form of protection — but better than nothing.

  You never know who might be there.

  And why.

  I drank coffee with milk — slowly, trying to breathe evenly, as if preparing not for a conversation, but for a plunge into cold water.

  And my thoughts started circling again.

  Amanda suspects they are spies.

  I almost smirked — but inside, it wasn't funny. Because lately there had been far too much strange on our street. And because I myself had seen too much to simply dismiss it.

  Who knows...

  Who is living in that house?

  Alexander was very pleasant. Genuinely so. Attentive, calm, caring. He takes care of Phil. Of the house. Of the plants. Even of the dog — and how. He knitted a coat. He thinks about small things. He seemed... very kind.

  And that was exactly what worried me.

  Because something was wrong with Phil.

  He wasn't getting better. No matter how much he joked, reassured, brushed things off. He was growing heavier. More tired. It was hard for him to walk. And this "treatment"... what kind of treatment is it if his condition only worsens?

  And who else was there?

  I knew for sure:

  There had been someone else in the window.

  Not Alexander.

  Not Phil.

  I would find out.

  Today.

  I looked at the clock.

  There wasn't much time left until eleven.

  I got dressed.

  Took the chocolates.

  And went out.

  Outside there was a blizzard — the kind that makes it immediately clear that nature is not in the mood today. There was no sun at all, the sky hung low and gray, snow fell in dense clumps, as if someone above was shaking out pillows. The notice about rats was still dangling from the pole — crooked, almost torn off, like a warning no one reads anymore.

  There was a lot of snow. I thought that today I would definitely have to clear the path. Because if not today, tomorrow it would turn into an ice rink.

  Phil's house emerged gradually from the snowy veil. His car was in its place, completely covered with snow. In weather like this it's easy to get stuck somewhere and not make it back — though lately Phil wasn't going anywhere anyway. The car stood by the house constantly, as if it had gone into hibernation.

  I pressed the doorbell.

  The handle moved — and the door opened.

  "Molly! Hi!" Alexander said cheerfully. "Come in!"

  He was genuinely happy. Not in a "oh, someone again" way, but as if my arrival were the event of the day. I said I had come to check on Phil and just talk.

  Alexander immediately took off my coat — carefully, attentively. Hung it up, adjusted it, looked at me with that same half-smile that feels warm and slightly suspicious at the same time.

  "Phil is in the bedroom," he said. "Let's go."

  "May I see him?" I asked.

  "Of course," he answered so quickly it felt like the question had been purely formal.

  We went upstairs.

  Phil was sitting on the bed in excellent spirits. Pink pillows behind him, a pink fluffy blanket. A laptop on his knees. He was watching some very funny comedy and laughing out loud, like a man with not a single worry in the universe.

  "Molly!" he exclaimed. "I didn't even hear the doorbell. Thanks for opening," he said to Alexander.

  There was a flower in the room.

  That very one.

  Cut. In a vase. Absolutely fresh.

  The scent was gentle, warm, familiar — the very one that already made something twitch in my memory. How was that possible? Was this another one? Where did he get another exactly like it?!

  "Sit here, next to me," Phil said.

  I sat down on the other side of the bed and placed the box of chocolates on the bedside table behind me.

  "I'll leave you," Alexander said. "I won't interfere."

  And he left.

  I asked Phil how he was feeling. Whether he was sure the doctors were good.

  "I don't know," he said honestly. "On the one hand, I feel great. And the weight keeps increasing. Even though I can't eat meat or potatoes at all. Just a couple of chocolates with tea."

  He perked up.

  "But right now I'm absolutely loving forshmak!"

  "What?" I asked.

  "Forshmak!" he said enthusiastically. "Herring... with something else. Alexander makes sandwiches for me. Spreads it on bread. It's divine. You have to try it."

  I asked about the flower.

  "Turns out it's a rare species," Phil said. "Its scent is beneficial. Alexander understands these things. He found this plant for me. It blooms. Sometimes he cuts the flowers and brings them to me. The plant itself is downstairs, in the greenhouse. We'll show you later."

  I cautiously insisted on other doctors. Then asked how long Alexander would be staying. Where he was from. What he did.

  Phil answered reluctantly.

  "Third cousin. Business — ecology. Something about cleaning oceans, seas, territories. I don't really get into it. Right now he's looking for a building, wants to open a branch here. Studied in Macedonia, then lived wherever. Lately — Eastern Europe."

  He shrugged.

  "Better ask him yourself."

  I decided to say it.

  "Phil... Amanda said... When she first saw Alexander, he was looking for you, but he used a different name. And the surname was different. Jo-Jo and I were worried. You disappeared suddenly. Alexander arrived out of nowhere... We thought something bad had happened."

  Phil looked at me.

  "That's starting to sound like an interrogation," he said.

  "I'm just worried," I replied.

  And then something touched my back.

  Not painful.

  Light.

  I jumped.

  On my side of the bed, near the bedside table, there was something black. Round. Completely covered in fur. It was moving. It tore open the box and greedily ate the chocolates like a creature that had been waiting for this for a long time. Then it grabbed the box and dragged it under the bed, disappearing after it.

  I screamed.

  Loudly.

  Wordlessly.

  Pure instinct.

  I burst out of the room and stopped in the hallway, gasping.

  "Molly, what happened?" Phil was asking. "What's wrong with you?!"

  He jumped up.

  Alexander ran in.

  I was screaming, pointing, explaining, waving my hands.

  They looked at each other.

  Phil looked under the bed.

  Nothing.

  No box.

  No chocolates.

  No fur.

  He was surprised — and almost immediately forgot about it. Lay back down. Alexander tucked him in, turned on the series.

  "Everything's fine," Phil said. "Everything's okay."

  As if I hadn't just seen a furry monster with chocolates.

  We left the bedroom.

  I was shaking. Alexander gently took my hand.

  "Phil mustn't be upset. Let's go downstairs, please," he said quietly and looked straight into my eyes — for a long time, without blinking.

  And as we were going down the stairs into the living room, I heard a whisper.

  "She sees..."

  "She sees them..."

  Panic hit me completely.

  Who is saying that?!

  In the living room, his voice was soft, calm, almost tender.

  "You accidentally ended up where you shouldn't have been," he said. "There are things you don't need to know."

  "I do need to know!" I shouted. "I saw a person in your window! Someone else lives here!"

  I tried to feel for the deodorant in my bag.

  He was silent. Looked away.

  "I'm calling the police," I said. "Phil isn't himself. This isn't treatment."

  He didn't answer.

  I lunged for the door — and couldn't.

  I was pushed back.

  Like a magnet.

  No pain.

  But absolute.

  I tried again.

  Then the window.

  Then another.

  The house wouldn't let me out.

  I pulled out the deodorant...