Several days passed unnoticed — dissolving into small things, into work, into the quiet of the house, into the habit of not expecting anything abrupt. I almost stopped replaying the events of the past few weeks in my head. Almost.

  Whoever was responsible for the occasional evening rustling and the eaten sweets was never found.

  And I nearly forgot that Frau Schwarzenegger was supposed to come.

  I remembered at the very last moment — already after glancing at the clock and feeling that brief, unpleasant tightening inside: today. I quickly looked around the house. There was light chaos everywhere — not mess, but a creative state: brushes standing in jars, rags draped over a chair back, stacks of paper, a half-finished cup of tea, an open box of paints. The house looked exactly the way a house should look when someone lives and works in it at the same time.

  The doorbell rang right on time.

  Frau Schwarzenegger stepped in confidently, just like last time. Her gloves were already on, her scarf neatly tied, her face composed. She swept the space with a quick glance — not evaluative, but professional.

  I suddenly realized I felt awkward.

  "I have this..." I began and hesitated. "Basically, someone ate all the sweets."

  She looked at me.

  "What sweets?" she asked calmly.

  "Chocolate ones. And wafers. In a vase. In the studio. The sweets... disappeared. Wrappers left. And crumbs."

  Frau Schwarzenegger listened in silence. She didn't look surprised. She didn't ask a single clarifying question. She just nodded once — short, precise, like someone mentally checking off a box.

  "We'll deal with it," she said.

  And moved on.

  A minute later she was standing by the window, looking out into the yard.

  "And why is everything black out there?" she asked without turning around. "Where's the fence?"

  I sighed.

  "A fire. Lightning. At night."

  She turned, looked more closely, then nodded again.

  "Would you like me to fix that as well?" she asked. "It's ugly. And unsafe. Parts of the fence are falling apart."

  It took me a second to realize she was serious.

  "You... can?" I asked.

  "If there are tools," she replied evenly. "And materials. Replace the wood. Remove the charred parts. Paint it."

  I felt flustered — and immediately, unexpectedly relieved.

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  "Of course," I said. "I'd really appreciate it.

  I have plenty of tools. The garage is basically a storage unit. All sorts of things in there. I think there's even paint left... though I don't know if it's still usable."

  Frau Schwarzenegger was already heading for the door.

  "We'll see," she said. "If it's dried — we'll find a solution."

  She said it as if there were no unsolvable problems in the world at all.

  After a while, familiar sounds returned to the house: water running, footsteps, the soft rustle of cloths. Everything happened without fuss, but very thoroughly. I caught myself no longer listening — as if the house itself knew what was being done to it.

  The day really turned out well — even better than I'd expected.

  Closer to evening, there was another knock at the door. Not the bell — a knock. Confident. Alive. I opened it, and Jo-Jo was standing there.

  "Hey," he said instead of greeting me, "who's that outside banging around with a hammer?"

  I couldn't help smiling.

  "My cleaner."

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  "Wow," he said. "That's some scale."

  We went into the kitchen. Outside the window, Frau Schwarzenegger was methodically restoring the fence — adjusting, leveling, knocking away the remains of blackened boards. She worked calmly, without haste, as if she'd been doing this all her life.

  "So," Jo-Jo continued and finally exhaled, "I managed to get in touch with Phil. I even stopped by today."

  I tensed immediately — and then relaxed just as quickly when I heard his tone.

  "He's doing well," Jo-Jo said. "Really well. He treated me to pancakes."

  "Pancakes?" I asked.

  "Yeah," Jo-Jo smirked. "And you know what... he's gained a lot of weight. Noticeably."

  "Well of course," I said. "Pancakes."

  "Exactly. His cousin made them. The third cousin."

  He was speaking calmly now, without anxiety, as if closing some unresolved inner question.

  "Alexander," he added. "That's his name. A very pleasant guy. Calm. Attentive. Says he arrived here in Paxburg recently, then found out Phil was ill, and Phil took him in. Now he helps him with everything."

  I nodded.

  "I told you I'd never seen him before," Jo-Jo continued. "Not in childhood, not later. But Phil said he has a huge extended family. And Alexander studied in Macedonia, then lived in some other country — so it's not surprising."

  He waved it off.

  "Anyway, a normal guy. I liked him."

  "And Phil?" I asked.

  "In a good mood," Jo-Jo replied. "Even joked. Apologized for not being in touch much. Said the treatment is exhausting and he's trying to stay off his phone. Asked for understanding."

  He paused, then smiled.

  "And you know what? Bridget likes Alexander too."

  As if on cue, Bridget let out a quiet bark at his feet.

  "Alexander promised to knit her a sweater," Jo-Jo added, already grinning. "Turns out he knits. That's his hobby. Showed me some hats — honestly, really good. I'd wear them myself."

  I laughed. The tension that had been living in me for days finally let go.

  "Well then," I said. "Looks like we worried for nothing."

  "For nothing," he agreed. "Everything's fine."

  We sat a little longer, talking about nothing — the weather, the snow, how strangely fast the city slips into winter. Then Jo-Jo got ready and left.

  I stayed by the window and looked into the yard once more.

  Frau Schwarzenegger worked on. The snow lay even and bright. The evening was calm.

  She finished when it was already dark outside — put everything completely in order.

  Not just "cleaned" or "tidied," but truly set things right — as if the space had finally remembered what it was meant to be. The house breathed differently. The floors were clean to a squeak, the surfaces empty and clear, without sticky traces of life. In the garden, the fuss was gone: the blackened parts removed, the broken straightened, the excess taken away. The front yard looked neat, collected, as if someone had redrawn it from scratch. Even the garage was partially organized — just enough so things could be found again.

  Before leaving, she stopped, wiped her hands, and said almost casually:

  "It's not a mouse."

  I looked up at her.

  "Looks like a marten," she continued calmly. "Smart. Light. Comes and goes. Sweets — yes. Very typical."

  I didn't argue.

  "I'll buy proper repellents," she said. "Good ones. If I can, I'll bring them before the next cleaning. You can pay me back later."

  "Before?" I asked. "Are you sure?"

  She nodded.

  "I clean another house nearby. If I'm close — I'll bring them. If not..." She shrugged. "Then in two weeks."

  Two weeks sounded like eternity, but I didn't say anything.

  "I'll try earlier," she added more softly.

  We said goodbye at the door.

  "Auf Wiedersehen," she said firmly.

  Then added something else — already in German, quickly, habitually, as if forgetting I might not understand. German words kept slipping into her speech, fragments of phrases, intonations that were meant to be understood without translation.

  I nodded and smiled, pretending I understood.

  A car arrived for her, and she left the same way she always did — calmly, thoroughly, without looking back.

  I was alone again, and suddenly caught myself replaying Jo-Jo's words in my head.

  Knits hats.

  I stopped in the middle of the room.

  That car. That man. Confident movements, expensive fabric, an easy laugh at the door — and yet... he knits?

  It didn't fit the usual picture. It didn't contradict it either — it opened it from the side, unexpectedly. As if he deliberately refused to fit into any of the categories we usually assign to people.

  I remembered how Jo-Jo had talked about it almost with delight. That Alexander showed him the hats he'd knitted. That he promised to knit Bridget a sweater. That it was his hobby — calm, patient, requiring time and attention.

  It caught me more than it should have.

  An interesting man.

  Unusual.

  And not at all someone you could easily simplify.

  I suddenly realized I'd been thinking about him longer than about Phil over the past few days. And that I was genuinely curious — not out of anxiety, not suspicion, but simple, alive interest.

  Phil's third cousin had clearly caught my attention — even though I hadn't even been able to make out his face.

  I wonder what he looks like.