The next morning, nothing was dripping.

  I didn't notice it right away—at some point I simply realized that the house had grown quieter. Not better, not worse. Just steadier. I stood by the sink and listened. The wall was silent. The water flowed as it was supposed to.

  The phone rang closer to nine.

  "Good morning," the technician said. "I bought the part, but I won't be able to come today. I'll send a colleague. He'll install everything—there's nothing complicated."

  "All right," I said. "Thank you."

  The colleague arrived an hour later.

  Short, quick, without conversation. He went into the bathroom, unscrewed something, tightened something else, checked the pressure, nodded to himself, and said everything was done.

  "It should work now," he said from the doorway.

  And left.

  The house became... more ordinary again. I caught myself feeling slightly disappointed. As if something else had disappeared along with the drops—something I had never managed to name.

  I put on my jacket and went to Phil's.

  As always, everything in his place was plants. They stood on the windowsills, on the floor, on shelves, in corners. Some in pots, some in buckets, some simply in crates. Leaves touched each other, intertwined, stretched outward. The house didn't look lived in—it looked inhabited.

  Phil was among them. He was kneeling by a large container of soil, carefully mixing it with his hands.

  "Hi," I said.

  "Hi," he replied and quietly cleared his throat. "I'm better. Yesterday was worse."

  "It shows," I said.

  He nodded and moved the leaves aside.

  Underneath were fresh, firm shoots. They looked as if they hadn't grown over days, but over hours.

  "They've gone crazy," Phil said. "At first I thought I'd overdone it, but then I realized—no. Everything's fine."

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  "What did you give them?" I asked.

  "New fertilizer," he said. "Chicken manure, water, and birch sap. In the right proportion."

  He smiled—calmly, genuinely.

  "By the way, people are coming today," he added. "For young plants. Jade vine. I've been growing it for a long time, but specimens like this don't happen often."

  "You sell them?" I asked.

  "Sometimes," he said. "When I understand it's time for them to move on."

  "They fixed everything at my place," I said. "Nothing's dripping anymore."

  "Good," he nodded. "At least that's in order."

  He wiped his hands on a cloth, stood up, and almost immediately—casually, as if in passing—scratched his stomach. Not sharply, not complaining, just mechanically.

  "How are you?" I asked.

  "Fine," he said. "A bit strange inside, but I think it's stress."

  He paused, then suddenly smirked.

  "Listen... I only realized something this morning," he said. "I left your place wearing your pink bathrobe and that huge T-shirt."

  I blinked.

  "Right..."

  "I didn't realize it right away," he continued. "The neighbors were already on their way to work, everyone staring at me. And I'm walking, barely thinking, feeling awful, everything like fog. I ran home—and only then noticed. And even then, not immediately."

  He cleared his throat softly again.

  "I washed everything," he added. "I'll bring it out now."

  He went deeper into the house and returned with a neatly folded stack.

  "Here. Thank you."

  "And I completely forgot about your clothes," I said. "They're at my place. I'll bring them later."

  "All right," he said. "Thank you."

  "I also posted a notice about the wallet," he added. "This morning. Maybe it'll work."

  "That's good," I said. "That's the right thing to do."

  "The money probably won't turn up," he added. "But the documents... Without them, it's difficult. Restoring everything is a whole ordeal."

  I nodded.

  I looked at him and felt the urge growing inside me—to talk. To tell him everything. About the night. About the words. About what he said and how he said it. About the room that had first appeared empty.

  I wanted to do it very much.

  But not now.

  He looked tired. And calm—too calm for conversations like that.

  "Let's talk tomorrow," I said. "Just talk."

  "Okay," he agreed easily, without asking about what.

  I went home.

  The first thing I did was turn on the washing machine—threw the dirty clothes in without sorting them. The sound of water was ordinary, even, human. I stood there until the drum started spinning, and only then sat down at the table.

  I haven't lived here very long.

  After art university, I took a pause. Not because I didn't know what to do next, but because I needed to stop. My parents died, and their house was left to me—warm, proper, full of life. Too full.

  It was good there. So good that it began to press in. The memories weren't sharp—they were everywhere. In every room, every morning, every small thing. Living among that turned out to be impossible.

  I sold that house.

  I bought this one almost immediately—old, in need of repair, with crooked floors and dripping pipes. It was empty. And that turned out to be the most important thing. Nothing here expected me to continue my former life. I could settle in slowly, however I wanted, without looking back.

  I was still settling in.

  At lunch, I finally ate properly. Slowly, without hurry, trying not to return in my thoughts to the previous day. Then I decided to distract myself and turned on the television—though I rarely do that. Usually it gets in my way. But at that moment I wanted something to simply run in the background, without demanding attention.

  I flipped through channels, barely looking at the screen.

  And at that moment, the phone rang.

  I don't like talking on the phone at all. It's always been easier for me to write. In conversation, words demand immediate answers, and I prefer pauses.

  The number was unfamiliar.

  I didn't answer.

  The phone went silent—and almost immediately rang again. Then again. The call was persistent, but not irritating. More like waiting.

  The third time, I sighed and answered.

  "Hello."

  "Miss Shrimp?" asked an even, neutral voice.

  "Yes."

  "Please expect a package today," the voice said. "Delivery between fifteen and sixteen hours. The courier will hand it to you personally."

  "Excuse me," I said, "but I didn't order anything."

  A short pause.

  "The package is registered in your name. The information is inside. Delivery—personal only."

  The line went dead.

  I stared at the phone for a while.

  I was certain I hadn't ordered anything.