Alexander looked at me for a long time—as if weighing something inside himself.

  "I think that's enough for today," he finally said.

  His voice was calm, but fatigue had crept into it.

  "I have to go. And... I need to leave for a short while. Business," he added evasively. "I'll be back. About a day before Christmas."

  He stepped closer.

  "I'll have to put you into a state of Serenitas again," he said quietly. "Like last time."

  "No. No, please. Don't. I'll stay silent, I won't tell anyone, I—"

  He interrupted me gently, but firmly.

  "I have to."

  There was no threat in his voice. No doubt. Only necessity.

  He cupped my head with one hand.

  In the other, the fluffy glutton—Shi-Moo—was still dangling, looking utterly confused about why he'd been dragged into the drama at all.

  His thumb touched my temple.

  Softly. Precisely.

  And the world began to melt.

  First, my thoughts. They rounded off, slowed down, as if they stopped scratching at me from the inside.

  Then my body—heavy and weightless at the same time.

  And then warmth came...

  I woke up in my bed.

  The first thing was the scent.

  Floral, delicate, alive—as if spring had decided to visit December.

  I turned my head.

  On the bedside table stood a vase. Not mine. Beautiful, transparent, almost fragile.

  Inside—that very flower.

  Next to it—a tray. Also not mine.

  Pastries, fruit, and a cup of cappuccino laid out neatly.

  I touched the cup with my fingers.

  Hot.

  Fresh.

  My thoughts began to gather—not abruptly, but gently, as if someone were carefully returning my memory, choosing only the warm fragments.

  Alexander came over.

  For salt.

  We laughed.

  He ate pastries and smeared cream on his lip in a ridiculous way.

  I treated him to coffee.

  He said he would leave for a short while.

  Asked me to take care of myself.

  Then my head started spinning.

  He led me to the bedroom.

  I lay down.

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  And probably... fell asleep.

  I propped myself up on my elbows and called softly,

  "Alexander?.."

  Silence.

  The house was empty—but not cold.

  Something of him remained in it: order, care, the feeling that someone had thought about me.

  I didn't get up. I didn't go looking.

  I felt good. Warm. Safe.

  I took a pastry. Then another. Took a sip of cappuccino—it was perfect, with dense foam and that flavor you don't get by accident.

  I stared at the ceiling and suddenly realized clearly:

  I miss him.

  Quietly, sweetly—the way you miss someone who has already become part of your space, even if they were there only briefly.

  How incredible he is, I thought.

  I suddenly thought about Christmas gifts.

  The decision was already made—Jo-Jo and Leah would get paintings. And Phil too.

  Paintings aren't things; they stay, breathe, live with the house.

  But Alexander...

  With Alexander, it was different.

  I went through my works in my head—one by one. No. Not that. Too past. Too чужое. Too before him. None fit.

  "Then I'll have to paint a new one," I said out loud.

  And immediately got scared.

  Would I make it in time?

  Christmas was close. Time was tightening, like ice before it cracks. But in the same second I realized—inspiration was overflowing. It didn't just exist; it spilled over, like water with no outlet.

  I jumped out of bed and almost ran to the studio.

  The canvases stood against the wall, silent, patient. I pulled out a new one. Clean. White.

  "Well then," I said to it. "Let's go."

  I froze.

  What should I paint?

  I closed my eyes.

  And immediately—without effort, without searching—they came.

  Large white herons.

  Those very ones.

  Tall, calm, almost unreal. Their movements slow and precise...

  One.

  I understood—it would be one heron.

  Not a pair. Not a flock. One—standing, collected, attentive. Not flying away. Not attacking. Waiting.

  And beside it—a flower.

  Violet-blue. Deep, as if dusk and night had mixed inside it. A color holding calm, danger, and mystery at once.

  It shouldn't glow brightly—no.

  It should glow from within. The way things glow when they live by their own laws.

  I opened my eyes.

  My hands already knew what to do.

  The paint went on confidently, almost without hesitation. Lines found each other on their own. The heron's white feather was born on the canvas—not decorative, but alive. With weight. With silence. With that particular dignity you can't invent—you can only remember it.

  The background slipped into soft shadows.

  The flower slowly gained depth.

  Purple flowed into blue.

  Blue into near-black.

  And somewhere inside that color, a glow remained—like breath.

  I painted and didn't notice time.

  The studio was quiet. Snow fell evenly outside, soundless. The house smelled of the flower from the vase and fresh paint.

  When I decided to take a break and went to the bathroom, I suddenly remembered the wall.

  That strange sensation of warmth that used to appear for no reason—as if someone were breathing on the other side, or the house briefly lived its own life. I remembered it so vividly that I froze with my hand on the tile.

  I checked.

  My palm rested against the wall—carefully, almost expectantly.

  Cold.

  Ordinary.

  Completely normal.

  I frowned.

  I hadn't changed anything. That was strange... I definitely needed to ask someone who understood such things. What if a pipe burst... anything could happen. The house was old; you could expect anything.

  I went out to shovel snow—not for any particular reason, just to walk and clear my head.

  The snow crunched. The street looked like a postcard: inflatable reindeer, glowing snowmen, garlands on railings, windows with warm yellow light. The air was dense, frosty, smelling of pine and smoke.

  I walked a bit farther than usual—and saw Jenkins.

  He was outside, in his chair, wrapped in a blanket, with that calm posture of a man who isn't in a hurry because he's already understood everything. His face still carried traces of the recent past—skin pinker in places, a bit tight—but almost everything had healed. After the power-bank explosion, he looked surprisingly composed, like someone who had survived more than one strange turn of fate.

  "Hey," he called. "Molly."

  I smiled and came over.

  "How are you?" he asked. "Everything alright?"

  "Yes," I said.

  And caught myself realizing I meant it.

  He nodded slowly, as if checking not my words, but what lay between them.

  "Well then," he said. "We go on living."

  Then paused for a second and added casually,

  "Come by sometime. If you're not in a hurry."

  He lifted the edge of the blanket slightly.

  "Everyone's gone. Just me and the cats here."

  The house was warm. Not just heated—warm in the way places are where people live quietly for a long time. It smelled of firewood, old wood, and books. Lots of books. They were everywhere: along the walls, stacked near chairs, even on the windowsill. Some were very old, with darkened spines; others well cared for, neatly mended.

  "So many books!" I exclaimed.

  "I can't read anymore," Jenkins said. "But the smell... I can still sense it. Sometimes that's enough."

  The cats slept on the stove. All of them at once. Spread out like warm pillows, they lazily opened their eyes but didn't move. The stove crackled softly. The house was decorated modestly—just a few branches, a couple of candles, nothing extra. And because of that, it felt especially cozy.

  The furniture was heavy, simple: wood, metal, stone. Skins on the floor. Everything resembled a Viking dwelling—not a showpiece, but a real one that had survived many winters.

  "Sit," he said, pointing to a chair.

  I sat. The cats didn't even look at me.

  "I wanted to tell you something," Jenkins continued after a pause. "Duke was coming home the other day... and near our street, a woman called out to him."

  I lifted my head.

  "She asked about you. Said she was an acquaintance but couldn't remember where you lived. Duke pointed to your house, but she didn't go there. Thanked him and left."

  He paused.

  "Strange. Usually, if someone's looking—they go straight there. But this... it was like she was just checking."

  Something unpleasant tightened inside me.

  "I thought," he added calmly, "that maybe someone's watching you. For bad reasons. Times are like that now. So be careful. Though..." he smiled slightly, "Alexander is nearby now. Still—be cautious. I may not see, but I feel. And tell him everything."

  I froze.

  I suddenly caught myself wanting to ask how he even knew Alexander—but didn't.

  The cats sighed softly on the stove.

  I asked Jenkins what the woman looked like.

  He frowned slightly, as if sorting through someone else's description.

  "I didn't ask Duke," he said honestly. "At the time it seemed trivial. Now—not so much."

  We chatted a bit more. About nothing. About snow. About how this winter was particularly... persistent. The cats shifted positions; one stretched, another rolled closer to the stove.

  And then the door opened.

  Duke and Freya came in.

  They carried a large cut Christmas tree—real, heavy, with thick branches. Snow shook loose from it, and the room filled instantly with the sharp, fresh scent of pine. The air seemed deeper. Alive. Festive. Inappropriately joyful, considering everything we'd just talked about.

  "Well," Duke said. "Made it before dark."

  Jenkins turned his head toward him.

  "Duke," he said calmly. "Do you remember the woman who asked about Molly?"

  I tensed.

  "Oh, that one?" Duke replied immediately, without thinking.

  "So there she is—right there."