A man stepped out of the car.

  I had forgotten my glasses again. In a rush—as always. The world was slightly blurred, without sharp edges, but it was enough to catch what mattered. He moved with confidence, without haste, the way people move when they're used to being noticed.

  He was dressed elegantly and at the same time semi-casually. Nothing flashy, nothing excessive—just expensive. You could feel it immediately. The hooded jacket fit him perfectly, as if it had been tailored to that exact back. The shoes were light, neat. Everything matched the car, I thought.

  He stood half-turned toward me. Then, without fully turning around, he took a few steps back to the rear door, opened it, and leaned inside. The movement wasn't rushed. He took something out—I couldn't tell what. A bag? A package? A box? Without my glasses, everything merged into shape and gesture.

  I tried not to stare.

  I pretended I didn't care. That I was just going about my business. That neither he nor his car nor what he was doing there interested me. But my gaze kept returning—briefly, sideways, as if on its own.

  I wondered what he did for a living.

  That kind of car costs a lot.

  And cars like that don't usually park somewhere for no reason.

  He closed the door softly, almost without a sound. Stood still for a second, as if listening. To the street. To the silence. Or to something inside himself.

  Snow settled on his shoulders, on his hood. He didn't brush it off.

  I walked past him without quickening my pace, feeling his presence at my back—like a warm patch in the cold air. And only when I was a little farther away did I allow myself to glance back once more.

  He was already walking off unhurriedly.

  Crossed the street at the zebra crossing.

  And turned right—straight onto Violet Street.

  I stopped almost automatically, as if my body reacted before my mind. Then I followed, slowly. Not close. At a distance that could easily be explained by coincidence.

  Violet Street greeted him with silence. The snow here lay almost untouched—soft, light. The streetlamps were already on, and in their glow the street looked almost drawn—neat, unreal. He walked confidently, without looking back, like someone who knew exactly where he was going.

  And then it started to sink in.

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  The car.

  The clothes.

  The calm.

  And the way Jo-Jo had described that man.

  Phil's second cousin?

  The thought came suddenly—not as a guess, but as a coincidence fitting into place too perfectly. Everything inside me tensed. If it was him... then he wasn't here by chance. And not just passing through.

  I slowed down.

  I tried to walk as if I were simply heading home. I counted my steps. Looked at the ground. But all my attention was fixed on his back. He moved evenly, without hurry. Didn't take out his phone once. Didn't turn around once.

  He walked past my house.

  My heart jerked.

  A few more steps across the street—and he was at Phil's house.

  He stopped.

  One second. Two.

  Then he lifted his head and looked at the fa?ade.

  I slowed even more and stopped by the neighboring fence, pretending to adjust my scarf.

  He walked up to the door and first brushed the snow from his shoulders and sleeves—calmly, habitually. Then he bent down and wiped his boots against the edge of the step.

  The door opened easily.

  He laughed—cheerfully, briefly, openly, like someone who is welcome. And at that very moment I heard Phil's laughter from inside. Just as cheerful. Alive. Real. Recognizable.

  The man simply held the bag out in front of him and stepped inside.

  The door closed.

  I stood there for a few seconds without moving.

  And suddenly I felt ashamed.

  Truly ashamed—sharp and immediate, the way it feels when something inside snaps and you realize you've gone too far in your thoughts. It was obvious: Phil was happy. Genuinely happy. His laughter was alive and warm—not forced, not strained, but real. His.

  A second cousin.

  A decent man.

  No anxiety in the house.

  No hidden threat.

  And Jo-Jo and I had already worked ourselves into who-knows-what.

  Police.

  Suspicions.

  Fears.

  My chest tightened unpleasantly. As if I had peeked into someone else's life without permission and immediately assumed the worst—simply because I didn't understand what was happening. Because I was scared. Because the last few days had knocked me off balance.

  But that wasn't an excuse.

  I looked at Phil's house once more. The light was steady. Warm. Calm. They were clearly glad to see each other—without explanations, without justifications, without the need to prove anything.

  I exhaled.

  Sometimes everything turns out to be much simpler than it seems.

  Sometimes anxiety is nothing more than an echo of your own fears.

  I stood there a little longer, then turned around and slowly walked home, trying not to leave unnecessary traces in the fresh snow.

  I got into the bathtub and simply let myself enjoy it.

  The warm water embraced me immediately—no questions, no expectations. I closed my eyes, sank deeper, and let the day drain off me: the fuss, the tension, the ridiculous fears, the guesses, other people's voices, slamming doors. The water hummed evenly, confidently, as if it knew exactly what it was doing.

  At first, thoughts still surfaced—in fragments, images—but gradually they dissolved too. There was only my body, the warmth, and my breathing—finally calm.

  I washed everything unnecessary off myself.

  And for the first time in a long while, I felt that today—it was enough just to be.

  In the bathtub, I absentmindedly ran my palm along the wall.

  I remembered the sensation—the warm tile. Back then I had blamed it on nerves, on imagination. This time—no.

  The wall was warm.

  The same way.

  Evenly warm, like living skin.

  I pulled my hand away too sharply, as if I'd been noticed.

  For some reason it felt unpleasant. Not frightening—just unpleasant, like something out of place. What was in the wall? A pipe, maybe? I didn't know. I wiped my palm with a towel, though it was dry, and went into the studio.

  And there I gasped.

  The vase.

  The same heavy glass vase that had held chocolate and wafer candies since Halloween. I hadn't cleared it out simply because I rarely went in there and had almost forgotten about it.

  The vase was lying on its side.

  Intact.

  Not broken.

  The candies were gone.

  Or rather—they were there.

  But not like before.

  Wrappers were scattered across the floor.

  Crumbs.

  Smeared chocolate—dark, sticky marks on the table, on the floor, on the table leg. Someone had eaten messily. Someone hadn't cared about cleanliness. Someone had eaten greedily, quickly, as if time was short.

  I slowly scanned the studio.

  Nothing else had been touched.

  The paintings stood as before.

  The tools were in place.

  Only this.

  A vase that hadn't broken.

  And emptiness where there had been sweetness.

  And suddenly one thing became absolutely clear to me:

  This was not a mouse.