Days passed.

  Not quickly, not slowly — the way days pass before the holidays, when time seems to break into small fragments. I went into the city, wandered through shops, looked at Christmas gifts. I didn't buy anything right away — I touched things, studied them, imagined who they might suit. I liked that state: no rush, no pressure, just being among people, lights, and shop windows.

  The city was gradually changing. Lights came on earlier, displays grew warmer, and that special smell appeared in the air — a mix of cold, sweetness, and anticipation.

  One of those days, I was walking home.

  Near Jenkins's house, as usual, I slowed down.

  "Hello! How are you?" I called out loudly, as I always did.

  "Molly!" he replied cheerfully. "I'm getting better."

  He really did look better. Still wrapped in bandages, but livelier, more alert. His cats circled nearby — calm, dignified, like tiny guards.

  "They're treating me," he said with pleasure. "Better than any doctors."

  He laughed, and I caught myself smiling back. There was something very right about this old man — his voice, the way he sat among his cats, as if they truly kept him anchored in this world.

  I said goodbye and walked on.

  When I reached Phil's house, my eyes dropped to the road.

  Tracks.

  Fresh ones. Tire marks going out — and coming back. The snow was pressed down but hadn't yet smoothed over. Phil's car stood, as always, in its usual spot by the house.

  Phil's house was decorated.

  When I'd left earlier, none of this had been there. Now a thin garland ran along the path — not bright, but warm, soft, as if glowing from within. Simple Christmas ornaments hung on the bushes, neatly placed, no excess. A wreath of pine branches with small cones decorated the door. Everything looked restrained but very alive, as if the house itself had decided to prepare for the holiday.

  There were footprints in the yard — many of them. Crossing, fresh. It was clear people had been walking here, coming and going. The house no longer looked closed or waiting. It looked lived in.

  I stood there for another second.

  Then I stepped closer, brushed the snow off my boots against the edge of the step, and rang the bell.

  Something rustled behind the door.

  Quickly. Lightly. As if something ran past — and vanished.

  Then footsteps.

  Phil opened the door.

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  I froze involuntarily.

  He had gained a lot of weight. Not just put on a little — he'd become genuinely large. Especially his lower body: hips, belly, everything rounded out, soft and heavy. But his face... his face was happy. He was smiling broadly, sincerely — like someone who felt good inside.

  "Molly!" he said joyfully and hugged me right away. "I'm so glad to see you!"

  A warm, slightly sweet scent came from him — vanilla, fresh baking, and something floral. I recognized the note immediately. It reminded me of that unusual flower — the very one that had once been in the wallet. The same strange, almost glowing blend of aromas.

  "Come in," Phil said. "You're just in time."

  Inside, the house was... magical.

  It, too, was decorated for Christmas. Carefully, but generously. Garlands softly lit the space; even the plants were adorned — thin ribbons, tiny ornaments, pinecones. The kitchen glowed with warm light. The air was thick with scents — flowers, baking, tea.

  We walked through the house.

  Phil enthusiastically showed me everything, barely pausing for breath.

  "It's all Alexander," he kept saying. "You have no idea how well he takes care of everything. He has golden hands."

  And it showed.

  The plants weren't just alive — they were thriving, blooming, bearing fruit. Exotic trees held heavy, bright fruit. The house looked like a greenhouse from a dream. A paradise.

  I noticed large baskets filled with yarn balls — colorful, massive, many of them.

  "He knits," Phil said proudly. "Can you imagine?"

  The bedroom amazed me even more.

  A big, rough wooden bed was covered in pink fluffy pillows and an equally pink, unbelievably soft blanket. Everything looked unexpectedly tender. In a vase stood that same flower — absolutely fresh, as if just cut. On the nightstand sat an enormous cocktail, decorated with fruit, flowers, and a rim of colored sugar. The room was fragrant.

  There was also a new large flat-screen TV — completely unlike the old Phil.

  "It's all him," Phil chirped. "He takes such good care of me."

  I couldn't help myself.

  "You've... gained a lot of weight."

  He laughed.

  "I know!" he said lightly. "How could I resist? He cooks divinely. It doesn't bother me at all. I'm happy."

  And it was true.

  He said he felt much better, that he'd started selling again through Jo-Jo, that everything was falling into place. He laughed, joked, was loud, alive, joyful.

  In the kitchen he treated me to fresh cream-filled pastry tubes — unbelievably delicious — and tea with fresh wild strawberries. His own.

  I sat there, drinking tea, unable to decide whether I felt more happy or more astonished.

  "And your friend..." he suddenly asked. "Has she contacted you about the flask?"

  I shook my head.

  He apologized again. Promised to write more often, not disappear. Then he laughed it off, changed the subject, as if he didn't want to linger on anything unpleasant.

  When I was leaving, he hugged me again — warmly, kindly.

  Just before saying goodbye, Phil suddenly slapped his forehead.

  "Wait," he said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  He came back with a box of pastry tubes.

  "Take these with you," he said. "You shouldn't eat something like this alone."

  I laughed and thanked him.

  The pastries were still warm.

  They smelled of vanilla and something homely, calming.

  With that scent — and a feeling of mild shock — I went home.

  For a long time, I couldn't quite process what I'd seen.

  It was astonishing. Joyful. And somehow simply unbelievable.

  Who was this Alexander, anyway?..

  I set the box of pastries on the kitchen table and practically collapsed onto the couch. My body felt heavy but pleasantly so — like after a good, full day. Inside spread a rare sense of calm, almost happiness.

  The TV murmured in the background. I didn't pay attention at first, then caught the word "fire."

  They showed flames.

  A house burned to the ground.

  The owner had been on a cruise — lucky to survive. No one died. The house was insured.

  The camera slid along the street — and I shuddered.

  The place looked familiar.

  I looked closer and realized:

  it was two streets away from my house.

  "Nightmare..." I breathed.

  The good mood vanished instantly. I turned off the TV. The silence became dense, almost tangible.

  I thought again about Alexander.

  About his car.

  About the fact that he knits.

  About how easily and joyfully Phil had laughed.

  And suddenly I very clearly wanted another pastry tube.

  Just to hold on to that feeling.

  I got up and went to the kitchen.

  The box was still on the table.

  Or rather — what was left of it.

  The cardboard was torn.

  Crumbs lay scattered on the table.

  And streaks of cream were smeared unevenly across the surface...

  Not a single pastry left.

  "What on earth is this...?!" I said out loud.

  There was no answer.

  I stood in the kitchen for a moment longer, staring at the crumbs.

  "Wonderful," I said. "Just wonderful."

  If it's a mouse — it has refined taste.

  If it's a marten — judging by the appetite, very polite manners.

  If it's someone else — they clearly feel at home.

  I took a napkin and automatically began wiping the table. The cream came off easily, as if it had never been part of a crime. The crumbs gathered into a neat little pile. Everything became respectable again. Almost.

  "All right," I said to the empty space. "Consider it a treat."

  I said it out loud — and smiled to myself.

  Look what I've come to: negotiating with an invisible sweet-tooth.

  The house was quiet.

  No rustling.

  No sounds.

  As if whoever had eaten the pastries had already left — full and satisfied.

  I turned off the kitchen light, went back to the living room, and settled onto the couch again. The blanket felt especially soft. The day had been strange, but not bad. Rather... full.

  "I need to fantasize less," I murmured.

  And almost immediately fell asleep —

  with the thought that next time I'd hide desserts higher up in the cupboard.