That night, there were no dreams at all.

  It was strange. I usually dream—bright, colorful, detailed dreams. Sometimes the kind that later surface in real life, and every time I wonder: coincidence, or not? I still haven't figured it out.

  But that night—nothing. Emptiness. A deep, dense sleep without images, without flashes. As if someone had turned off the projector.

  I slept like the dead.

  I woke up rested, alert, surprisingly collected. My body felt light, my head clear. That rarely happens to me.

  I lay there for a couple of minutes, listening to the house. It was quiet, calm, steady.

  And then I remembered Frederica.

  She still hadn't replied.

  Not to my message. Not later. Not at all.

  Maybe she was having problems. Maybe she was busy. Maybe there was no signal—she had mentioned that. Or maybe... I didn't know. Strange behavior. I noted it mentally and set the thought aside.

  The Christmas tree in the living room pleased the eye.

  I stepped closer, straightened one ornament, lingered, smiled. The lights were soft, warm, alive. The house finally looked the way a house should look in winter.

  I went to the studio and began selecting paintings.

  For Phil—one where the Christmas tree was already decorated. Light, warm, calm. The kind you want to see every day.

  For Jo-Jo and Leah—another one. With a Christmas market. People, movement, life, anticipation of the holiday. It suited them.

  I carefully set both aside.

  And then the phone rang.

  An unfamiliar number.

  "Good afternoon," a voice said. "We're calling about the chimney inspection. Next week. Would that be convenient for you?"

  I glanced toward the fireplace.

  It stood untouched. Beautiful. Silent.

  "Yes," I said. "Of course."

  I hung up and sighed.

  I had a fireplace, but I hardly ever used it. I lived alone. And, to be honest, I was afraid. Afraid I'd forget to close the damper, that something would go wrong, that the house would catch fire. I'm scatterbrained. I can forget things. And fire is not something to joke with.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I dressed warmly and went to the pastry shop.

  Snow had piled up again, as if someone up there had decided: not enough—let's add more. The paths were cleared, but it barely helped—you still walked through white slush, sinking, crunching, slipping, and cursing silently.

  The pastry shop was warm and smelled like happiness.

  I took cream tartlets—the same ones I've loved since childhood. Crisp pastry, delicate cream, slightly sweet, slightly rich, perfect. I bought more than I planned. Just in case. The universe had been fond of surprises lately.

  At home, I made coffee with milk, settled by the window, and ate the tartlets slowly, with pleasure. I scrolled through my phone, watched silly videos—no meaning, just to smile. Every so often, I looked outside.

  And at some point, I saw Phil's door open.

  Alexander stepped out.

  I instinctively set my phone aside.

  He was clearing the path. Calmly, steadily, without fuss. The shovel in his hands looked unexpectedly fitting. He wore a long down coat, dark, almost black, and against the snow his face seemed even warmer—slightly olive-toned, alive. On his head was a knitted hat. Colorful. Funny. I was almost certain he'd knitted it himself.

  It was... beautiful.

  Strangely so—how beautiful a man with a shovel can look.

  I caught myself smiling, just watching. It felt light, peaceful.

  I wanted to go out and say hello.

  Just like that.

  He finished, shook off the shovel, leaned it against the wall, brushed the snow from his gloves...

  and walked.

  Not back into the house.

  Toward mine.

  He crossed the road.

  My heart jumped.

  Oh God... he's coming to me.

  I instinctively fixed my hair, then immediately thought it was stupid—I was in house clothes, with coffee, cream on my lips, standing by the window like a teenager.

  But he kept walking.

  Confident. Calm.

  Toward my house.

  I wiped my lips with a napkin—quickly, awkwardly, as if that could save anything. My heart was beating a little faster than it should for an ordinary winter day.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  I flinched.

  Get a grip, I told myself, and went to the door.

  I opened it.

  Alexander stood on the threshold.

  Snow still clung to his shoulders, his hat, his eyelashes. His cheeks were slightly pink from the cold. He was smiling—calmly, easily, as if coming over like this was the most natural thing in the world.

  "Hi," he said. "May I come in?"

  I blinked.

  "Yes... of course," I replied, then immediately added, catching myself, "Did something happen?"

  He shook his head, almost laughing.

  "No. Nothing happened."

  A pause—exactly half a second.

  "I wanted to ask for... uh... salt."

  I stared at him.

  "Salt?" I repeated stupidly.

  "Yes," he confirmed, completely serious. "Just plain salt. We suddenly discovered we don't have any."

  I laughed—unexpectedly, too loudly.

  "Come in," I said, stepping aside. "For salt—always welcome."

  He came in, neatly took off his boots, brushed the snow from his sleeves, and looked around. His gaze lingered on the tree, the pastry box, the coffee cup.

  "It's very cozy here," he said simply.

  "Thank you," I replied and felt myself blushing for some reason. "I'll find the salt."

  I went to the kitchen, feeling his presence behind me—not intrusive, not pressing, but very distinct. I took the salt cellar and poured some into a small jar.

  "Here," I said, handing it to him. "If you need more—just knock."

  He took the salt, but didn't pull his hand away right away. Our fingers brushed—just barely.

  "Thank you," he said quietly.

  And added, looking straight at me:

  "I'm glad you're home."

  For some reason, those words made me warm. Not loudly. Not sharply. Just—warm.

  He suddenly leaned closer.

  "Wait," he said softly.

  I didn't have time to ask anything—he gently, almost weightlessly, ran a finger along my lip.

  "Here," he smiled. "There's still some cream."

  I froze.

  "Oh..." I said, and immediately felt heat rush to my face. "God, how embarrassing..."

  "Not at all," he replied calmly. "It's actually kind of cute."

  Cute.

  That word finished me off.

  "Do you want coffee?" I blurted out too quickly. "Or tea. And pastries. I just came from the pastry shop. They're... very good."

  "Coffee," he said immediately. "And pastries. If you're getting into trouble—might as well go all the way."

  We laughed.

  He sat at the table, I set out the cups. He ate the pastries in a funny way—not clumsy, but like someone who genuinely enjoys sweets and doesn't try to look restrained.

  He caught my gaze and demonstratively licked his finger.

  "That's it," he said. "Now it's perfect."

  I shook my head, laughing.

  We talked—easily, about nothing and everything at once.

  About the snow. About how winter this year had decided to make up for lost time. We laughed. At one point, I picked up his hat from the back of the chair.

  "It's cool," I said, turning it in my hands. "Very... you."

  "Try it on," he said at once.

  "Can I?"

  "You must."

  I put the hat on. It was warm, smelled of something familiar—wool, frost, and something else I couldn't quite place.

  "Well?" I asked. "How do I look?"

  He looked at me—and suddenly stopped smiling.

  Not abruptly. Not frighteningly. Just something in his gaze changed.

  And in that moment, memory struck.

  I remembered everything.

  All at once.