I woke earlier than I needed to.

  The house was quiet and composed—the way it is just before leaving, when everything is still in its place, but your mind is already elsewhere. I made coffee, added milk. Drank one cup. Then a second—not because I wanted it, but to keep my hands busy.

  Frederika still hadn't replied.

  Not at night.

  Not in the morning.

  It annoyed me, but today there were other things to do.

  I went into the workshop.

  The flask stood exactly where we had left it. The glass was cold, clear. Inside—slow movement, almost lazy, like breathing underwater. I stepped closer and noticed dark specks—tiny, scattered, as if something were gathering in the depths.

  Probably structures.

  Or just what you start seeing if you stare too long.

  It was alive.

  And that made me uneasy.

  My phone chimed.

  A message from Phil.

  Jo-Jo is already on his way.

  He'll drive us.

  I don't have my license—it's still in my wallet.

  I'll be waiting.

  I dressed quickly. This time I took my glasses with me. I shoved a deodorant spray into my jacket pocket—the thought was stupid but calming: if anything happened, I could spray it in someone's eyes.

  I went out and crossed the street.

  Phil was waiting by the gate.

  He looked collected and calm. Fluffy blond hair escaped from under his hat, his green eyes were clear. An aquiline nose gave his face a stubborn determination. He didn't look frightened—more like ready.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "Morning."

  The car arrived almost immediately.

  Jo-Jo was driving—short, stocky, wearing glasses and plaid. He smiled broadly, confidently. On his lap sat a lapdog—important, calm, as if performing a responsible duty.

  "I brought security," Jo-Jo said, nodding at the dog. "Safer that way."

  We got in.

  As soon as the car moved, Phil started talking—as if continuing a conversation begun before I arrived.

  "I told you already, Jo," he said. "It's classic. Gypsy hypnotists. They hang around markets and train stations. Everything fits."

  "Yeah," Jo-Jo nodded. "They work fast. Distract you. Take wallets."

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Exactly," Phil continued. "I'm sure it was hypnosis. That's why I barely remember anything. And the wallet—stolen. Money, documents—everything was in there."

  He spoke calmly, confidently, as if he'd already sorted it all out for himself.

  "Then why are we going?" Jo-Jo asked.

  "To check," Phil said. "Find that person. Ask if he found the wallet. Or at least make sure that's really what happened."

  "And what do you think?" Jo-Jo asked, glancing at me in the mirror.

  I was looking out the window.

  "I don't know," I said.

  They both looked at me.

  "Don't know at all?" Phil asked.

  "No," I said. "At first I actually thought that technician put something in our water. In the pitcher. A drug, or something like that. I'm serious. Because everything felt... wrong."

  "The technician?" Jo-Jo repeated.

  "Yes," I said. "He was at my place before. Fixing the pipes. I remember the water pitcher. And then—everything got strange. I don't know what it was. Hypnosis, suggestion, chemistry... I honestly don't know."

  The car grew quieter.

  "But you did see something," Phil said. "You're sure of that?"

  "That I saw something—yes," I said. "What exactly it was—no."

  He nodded.

  "Alright. Then we're not going to prove anything. We're going to check."

  "Exactly," I said.

  Jo-Jo shrugged.

  "Well, at least we've got a plan. I'll wait outside. Five minutes. If you don't come out—I call the police."

  "Deal," Phil said.

  He rubbed his side for a second.

  "This stupid allergy is driving me crazy," he added. "It's been itching for days. I'm taking pills. Hope it passes."

  I said nothing.

  The car kept going.

  Each of us had our own version.

  And none of them fully matched the others.

  Which meant only one thing:

  Soon we'd understand at least a little of what was going on.

  We left the car in the parking lot and went on foot—all together.

  Jo-Jo walked beside Phil, holding the leash short. The lapdog, Bridget, stepped along importantly, focused, as if she understood this wasn't a walk.

  The alley was almost empty today.

  The same one—with stalls, souvenirs, African crafts. Today it looked different: not noisy, not colorful, but waiting. Like a stage without an audience.

  The vendor we'd seen last time wasn't there.

  Instead, a young Black woman stood behind the counter. She wore a warm leopard-print coat, bracelets on her wrists. She chatted cheerfully on the phone in another language, laughed, gestured—and our arrival barely interested her.

  There were no people around at all.

  I automatically searched for the stone toad—the beautiful, heavy one I'd wanted to buy last time. It wasn't there. Not on the counter, not underneath. The place where it had stood was empty.

  Phil stepped closer.

  "Excuse me," he said. "Do you know who owns this stall? And who lives in the building behind it?"

  The girl looked at him blankly. Then smiled, nodded—and pointed at a sign.

  ALL AFRICAN MASKS — $20

  She took the phone from her ear, tried to say something, couldn't find the words, then grabbed a piece of paper and started writing numbers—twenty, twenty, twenty again. Showing them to us, nodding, as if we simply hadn't understood the prices.

  "No," Phil said slowly. "I'm not asking about prices."

  She shrugged.

  Didn't understand. Or pretended not to.

  Jo-Jo looked around.

  The neighboring stall was empty. Completely.

  Just a folding chair and a few empty hangers. For some reason I was sure that last time there had been fabrics or scarves hanging there—but today it looked abandoned, like after a hasty departure.

  Phil looked at me.

  I nodded.

  The door was where it had been before—right inside the stall. It pressed up against a two-story building, as if it had always been part of it, not a temporary structure.

  An old, heavy door.

  Nothing special.

  Jo-Jo stayed outside with Bridget.

  Phil and I opened the door.

  Behind it was the same staircase—but now it looked different.

  A white carpet runner lay soft and fluffy, crunching quietly underfoot like fresh snow. On both sides stood elegant glass tables with live flowers. The railing was decorated with transparent elements, flowers, and bead-like pearls. Everything looked festive, ceremonial—almost unreal for this place.

  The scent was subtle and gentle.

  Not intrusive.

  Calm.

  "A wedding?" I whispered.

  "Looks like it," Phil said.

  But the corridor was empty.

  We went higher.

  The carpet kept softly crunching. On the second floor the air was different—warm and fresh at the same time. Breathing felt easy, as if the lungs opened wider. The scent was stronger here—paradisal, almost tangible.

  Everything looked elegant and deliberate.

  The apartment door stood wide open.

  Inside, it was bright.

  Too bright.

  The room was flooded with sunlight, as if the windows opened onto a clear noon—though outside it was overcast, heavy clouds hanging low.

  "Hello?" Phil called.

  No answer.

  We went in.

  Light carpets covered the floors. Fresh flowers stood in vases. The table was set with a white-and-blue tablecloth, clean and pressed, as if for a special occasion.

  On the table stood a dish.

  And on it—Phil's wallet.

  A flower was tucked into the wallet.

  One.

  Violet-blue, deep in color, as if twilight and night had mixed inside it. It glowed—not brightly, but from within. The same scent came from it—gentle, warm, soothing. Pollen dusted the petals, light, almost weightless.

  Phil stepped closer and froze.

  "I..." he said quietly. "I've never seen anything like this. Not even close. I don't know what kind of flower this is."

  He carefully took the wallet, checked—it was all there.

  We didn't linger.

  On the staircase the carpet still crunched. The decorations hadn't changed. Nothing had vanished or appeared. Everything was too correct.

  When we stepped outside, Jo-Jo was visibly nervous.

  "I was about to call," he said. "Glad you came out."

  Phil stopped.

  He looked at the flower again. Then at me.

  "Wait," he said, and stepped back.

  He gently removed the flower from the wallet, folded a handkerchief, and carefully wrapped it.

  "I have to study it," he said. "I have to. Things like this don't happen by accident."

  The flower didn't wilt.

  The light inside it remained.

  We walked to the car.

  "What's that?" Jo-Jo asked, noticing the handkerchief.

  "Later," Phil said. "At home."

  And for the first time since all this began, he looked truly happy.