I kept catching myself thinking that I should simply go over to Phil's.

  Not wait until we happened to meet by the gate.

  But actually go—late in the evening, when I saw that he'd come back—and ask how he was.

  For several days in a row, he seemed to slip out of my field of vision. In the mornings his car left early, almost at dawn, when the street was still gray and flat, without shadows. In the evenings he came back late, when the windows were already lit. We kept missing each other—by an hour, by half an hour, sometimes by just a few minutes.

  I saw his house.

  The light in the windows.

  His old car.

  But not Phil himself.

  At some point I simply texted him:

  How are you?

  How's your health?

  The message went through, but there was no reply right away.

  Violet Street lived its own enclosed life—quiet, but never truly empty. Everything here seemed to happen softly, yet with consequences.

  One of those events happened during the day.

  The smell arrived suddenly.

  At first there was a strange, heavy note, as if damp earth had mixed with something rotten. Then came a sharp, dense stench that caught in the throat and made it hard to breathe. It became clear: the cesspit had ruptured.

  It happened near Phil's house.

  More precisely, by the plot of the old man who lived two houses down. Very old—almost a hundred. He rarely went out, more often sitting by the window or in the yard, wrapped in a blanket, his gaze motionless, almost glassy.

  The gossiping neighbor appeared almost at once—red-haired, dry, with a long sharp nose that seemed to pick up news faster than words. Beside her, like a reflection, fussed her husband—quiet, unpleasant, with a habit of agreeing silently. At their feet spun their small dog—nervous, lanky; once again I was struck by how much it resembled its owner, both in its face and in the way it twitched.

  "Jenkins," she said, without lowering her voice. "He used to be a veterinarian. Very smart. Now he can hardly see at all—bad cataracts.

  His granddaughter lives with him. Freya. And her husband, Duke."

  She pronounced the names deliberately, as if placing pieces on a board.

  Freya and Duke had several cats. They roamed the street freely, disappearing and reappearing like shadows. Sometimes they climbed into Phil's garden.

  The workers arrived.

  Their truck parked almost across the street. People in work clothes walked around the manhole for a long time, talking among themselves, opening it, closing it, opening it again. The stench was so strong that even those who normally never did had to shut their windows.

  "Strange," one of them said, wiping his forehead. "Feels like something burst inside. Not just overflow. Like something was thrown in there."

  No one developed that thought.

  Everyone wanted only one thing—for the smell to go away.

  By evening everything was fixed. The manhole was closed. The water flushed. The street gradually returned to itself—wet asphalt, heavy air, sparse footsteps. Jenkins was sitting by the window again. Freya was hanging laundry. Duke was smoking by the gate.

  Phil still wasn't to be seen.

  I went back inside and almost immediately into the studio.

  The flask stood where it always had. But something in it had changed.

  I stopped.

  The movement inside was different—not slow and lazy as before, but fast, restless. The black dots I had once taken for something diffuse were now clearly moving. They slid, gathered, dispersed again, as if reacting to one another.

  The body of the fungus—or jellyfish—had changed as well.

  It had become more porous, uneven. Not smooth, but as if riddled with tiny cavities, honeycombs. The shape was no longer whole—it pulsed softly, reconfigured itself, as though searching for a new balance.

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  I caught myself staring for too long.

  I looked away.

  My phone vibrated.

  A message from Phil.

  Sorry I disappeared.

  Everything's fine.

  Just tired.

  I'll stop by tomorrow.

  I reread the message.

  That's good. Have a good evening, I wrote.

  In the morning I was woken by the doorbell.

  Not sharp—persistent, with pauses. I hadn't fully woken yet when it rang again, and there was something official, deliberate in the sound.

  A mail carrier stood at the door.

  He handed me a small envelope and said it had to be delivered personally, into my hands. The envelope was thick, light-colored, with neat handwriting. The stamp was unfamiliar. I put on my glasses and looked closer.

  Congo.

  Sleep vanished at once.

  I closed the door and sat down right in the hallway, without taking off my coat, the letter in my hands. Inside was a folded sheet of paper and a neat stack of bills. I counted them automatically—five thousand dollars.

  Frederika had written.

  She wrote quickly, densely, without unnecessary words—like someone who didn't have time to explain.

  They wouldn't manage to finish their work.

  If they left early, the contract would fall through.

  There was almost no connection there.

  Returning on time wouldn't be possible.

  She wrote that the liquid in the flask would last about two more weeks. No more. After that, it would need to be fed.

  She called it Cuna.

  Just like that. No explanation. Capitalized.

  She wrote that it was very important.

  She asked—almost begged—not to leave things as they were.

  She sent the money in advance, just in case.

  Then came the part that made my shoulders tighten.

  She asked me to find a small stopper—I wasn't even sure I'd seen it before—and remove it. Then, every day, using a syringe, inject a mixture inside. The names were in another language, long, unfamiliar, resembling either chemical formulas or Latin plant names.

  I read the letter twice.

  Then again.

  I didn't understand any of it.

  And I didn't want to understand.

  The thought that I would have to feed whatever stood in that flask caused panic—quiet, sticky. I put the letter and the money on the table, poured myself water, but didn't drink it.

  After some time I heard footsteps outside.

  Phil came closer to noon.

  He looked energetic. Too energetic. And it seemed to me that he wasn't even limping.

  He was wearing a very loose construction jumpsuit—dark, roomy, as if he slept and worked in it. In his hands were a large pot and a small box with something inside.

  "I brought you borscht," he said from the doorway, smiling. "From my own vegetables."

  The smell was thick, rich, warm—beets, cabbage, something else, deep and homemade.

  "Lately it's all I eat," he continued, already heading into the kitchen. "And you know... I feel great."

  He spoke easily, with enthusiasm.

  He told me he'd been going to a laboratory. That they were the ones who advised all this. That the doctors there were wonderful, the equipment unlike anything he'd ever seen. He'd hardly ever gone to doctors before, but now he was impressed—long, thorough examinations. They fed him there, let him rest, gave him a private room, everything thought through.

  "It's the same doctor who came to me back then," he said. "She recommended it. Everything's under control there."

  He spoke quickly, animated.

  He said he slept little, but had plenty of energy. That at night he worked with the flowers—and they were growing unbelievably fast. The swelling was still there, but the doctors said it was a hormonal imbalance, nothing critical. It would pass. Not right away, but it would. He was taking the medication.

  "Overall," he said, "I haven't felt this good in a long time."

  I looked at him and didn't know what to say.

  Frederika's words were still echoing in my head.

  Cuna.

  Feed it.

  Very important.

  Phil set the pot on the stove and turned to me.

  "Why are you so pale?" he asked.

  I looked at the table.

  At the envelope.

  At the money.

  At the letter.

  "Phil," I said. "We need to talk."

  He nodded at once, without questions.

  "Of course," he said. "What's going on?"

  I told him everything.

  About the letter that smelled of travel and чужие руки—foreign hands.

  About the stamp from Congo—bright, almost provocatively colorful against the gray morning.

  About the money in the envelope—too much, too fast.

  About the liquid in the flask not lasting long.

  About the request to feed it.

  About the name—Cuna—written unevenly but confidently, as if it weren't a label but a real name.

  I spoke chaotically. First one thing, then suddenly backtracking, jumping around, stumbling over words. About the syringe. About the mixture with names I couldn't read or pronounce. About the small stopper I hadn't even seen, and the mere thought of which made my shoulders tense.

  It felt like I wasn't telling a story, but making excuses.

  Phil listened in silence. He didn't hurry me. Didn't interrupt. Sometimes he nodded—briefly, almost imperceptibly, as if fixing each detail inside himself.

  Then he said calmly:

  "That's Latin. Or something very close. The structure of the words is familiar. Don't be afraid."

  He glanced toward the studio, to where the flask stood behind the wall.

  "Listen..." he said after a pause. "I can take it to my place. Not now. A bit later. But take all of this on myself. It's easier for me. I have the conditions. Humidity. Temperature."

  He smiled—truly, warmly.

  "I'll feed it like a pet."

  That phrase suddenly sounded strangely comforting.

  I felt something inside me loosen—slowly, not all at once, like a knot that had taken a long time to undo.

  "Are you sure?" I asked.

  "Absolutely," he said. "You know I like this kind of thing."

  Silently, I took the envelope and placed it on the table. The paper rustled softly as it touched the surface.

  "Take it," I said. "All of it. If expenses come up."

  He was about to object—I saw it in the movement of his lips—but I shook my head.

  "It's not my money. And I don't want to keep it."

  He nodded without arguing, folded the envelope neatly, and slipped it into the pocket of his wide construction jumpsuit, stained with soil and old paint.

  We went to the studio.

  We searched for the stopper for a long time.

  We circled the flask, bent down, changed angles. The glass reflected the lamp, and in the reflections everything seemed doubled. I was already starting to doubt that I'd understood the letter correctly at all, when Phil suddenly stopped.

  "There," he said softly. "See?"

  Small. Dark. Almost indistinguishable from the rest of the structure. It didn't protrude, didn't stand out—as if it had been made to be forgotten.

  He removed it carefully, without abrupt movements, the way one lifts a lid from something living.

  I caught myself holding my breath.

  Phil leaned closer, peered inside. Longer than before. Much longer.

  "These black things..." he finally said. "They've started moving faster."

  He didn't look alarmed. More focused.

  "And you know..." he squinted. "They look a bit like tadpoles."

  He said it calmly, almost matter-of-factly, as if talking about seeds or larvae in soil.

  "There's still time," he added. "I'll take it in a week. I need to prepare the place."

  We went back to the kitchen.

  Phil poured the borscht—thick, dark red, smelling of beets, garlic, and something else, deep and homely. Into his bowl he added boiled eggs, cut them in half carefully, almost ceremonially, and laid them on top.

  "It's tastier this way," he said. "And more filling."

  "Are those yours?" I asked, looking at the eggs.

  "No," he chuckled. "Homemade. Jo-Jo supplies them. His grandmother has chickens."

  He ate with appetite, with pleasure, like someone who had strength and plans. Between spoonfuls he talked about flowers, about how lately they'd been "responding" faster, as if understanding what was wanted of them. About the laboratory, where they fed him and put him to rest between examinations. About how it was easier for him to work at night than during the day.

  Phil finished his borscht, set the bowl aside, and stood up.

  He moved quickly, efficiently, like someone who already had the next step mapped out in his head. He checked his pockets, zipped up his jumpsuit, cast one more brief glance toward the studio—not lingering, but not indifferent either.

  "I'll come by in a few days," he said. "I'll prepare everything at my place. Then we'll move it carefully."

  "Okay," I said. "Thank you. Really."

  He waved his hand, as if gratitude were unnecessary.

  "It's fine," he said. "I'm even curious."

  At the door he paused for a second, as if he wanted to add something, but changed his mind. He just nodded and left.

  I was alone.

  The smell of borscht still lingered in the kitchen—thick, warm, real. I finished my bowl slowly, without conversation now, listening to the house. The borscht really was very good. Not comforting, not "homely" in the usual sense—but solid, sustaining, like food after which you want to go on living.