Several days passed.

  They didn't stand out as anything specific — I worked on a painting, did laundry, cooked, went to the shop, came back. I did the things people do when life seems to be moving forward, yet inside there is still a feeling that something has shifted and hasn't quite fallen back into place. The paint went on slowly. I often stopped, stepped back, looked from a distance. Everyday tasks helped — not by distracting me, but by keeping me contained.

  And then the cleaning day arrived.

  Early in the morning, a car with the agency's logo pulled into the street. I saw it from the window — massive, white, far too businesslike for our quiet Violet Street. The car stopped right in front of my house.

  A minute later, the doorbell rang.

  I opened the door — and for a moment simply froze.

  A very tall woman stood on the threshold. And very large. Broad — not fat, but wide, as if made of dense, heavy material. She filled the entire doorway. Her lips were painted a bright red, the same defiantly red as her long nails. On her head was a scarf tied with a little bow on the side, almost coquettish — a strange contrast to her severe appearance.

  Her gaze was hard, direct, assessing. Her face tense. She was clearly trying to smile, but it didn't come easily, as if her muscles weren't used to that movement.

  For a second, I lost the ability to speak.

  "Good morning," she said loudly, in a low, rough voice.

  It sounded like a voice that could move furniture.

  "Good... morning," I finally managed and stepped aside. "Please, come in."

  "One moment," she said.

  And began carrying everything inside. Buckets, cloths, mops, containers, brushes, bottles of cleaning liquids. She brought it all in at once, quickly, as if "later" was not an option.

  She stepped fully inside, lowering her head so as not to hit the doorframe, and immediately scanned the space — fast, sharp, like someone used to working with rooms.

  At that moment, another figure appeared behind her.

  A small, round woman. Blonde, with a neat bob haircut. She was wearing a lemon-yellow coat — bright, inappropriately cheerful for this gray morning. She almost jogged up, light on her feet, and began speaking in a quick, rehearsed tone:

  "Good morning! I represent the company. We just need to briefly go over the terms and sign a few documents before we begin."

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  She smiled confidently and professionally, like someone for whom everything must be recorded and confirmed.

  I nodded.

  The house suddenly felt too quiet and too personal. As if I had let in not just people, but a foreign order that was about to rearrange everything around me.

  "Let's go to the kitchen," I said. "It's more convenient there."

  They both went in.

  The tall woman stood in the middle of the room, like a pillar. The small one immediately pulled out a folder, papers, a pen.

  She spoke in a precise, businesslike voice, laid out the documents, pointed where to sign. Everything was clear, short, without unnecessary words. I signed. We went over the time, the scope of work, the price once more. After that, the round woman smiled, wished me a good day, and left as swiftly as she had appeared.

  The agency car drove away.

  Only she remained in the house.

  "Frau Schwarzenegger," the woman said sharply, as if placing a full stop.

  And immediately added, almost sternly:

  "Not a relative."

  I blinked involuntarily.

  "It's a German surname," she continued. "It means 'plowman on black soil.'"

  She said it with such calm dignity that the surname seemed to explain everything else.

  "Ida. That's my name."

  The name Ida felt far too small for her.

  She looked around.

  Not carefully — but all at once.

  And went to work.

  I suddenly remembered the studio.

  "Please be careful there," I said, keeping my voice even. "There's a glass vessel on a stand in the studio. And paintings. Some still have wet paint."

  Frau Schwarzenegger stopped.

  Slowly turned her head.

  Raised her thumb — a short, heavy gesture, more like a sign of clearance than approval.

  "Kein Problem," she said, without smiling.

  She was already wearing gloves — thin ones, stretched to their limit. It felt like one more second and one of the bright red nails would pierce the latex. She looked at her hands briefly, with concentration, like at a tool that had to withstand pressure — and didn't return to the thought.

  She turned and began cleaning.

  Without fuss.

  Without looking back.

  Without questions.

  Her steps were heavy, but precise. The floor didn't creak beneath them — as if the house immediately understood it was about to be handled seriously. I could hear her filling a bucket, moving furniture — not pushing it, but shifting it, as if she already knew the weight and center of gravity of every object.

  I stayed standing in the kitchen.

  At first, it seemed I should watch. Supervise. Stay nearby. But very quickly it became clear: there was no need. Frau Schwarzenegger moved through the house confidently, like through a place she had known for years. She didn't open unnecessary doors. Didn't look where she shouldn't. She simply took the space and put it in order — methodically, without emotion.

  After a while, I caught myself in a strange feeling: the house was no longer entirely mine. Not in a bad sense — rather, it was temporarily in other hands. Stronger ones. More direct. It was unfamiliar and... unexpectedly calm.

  She scrubbed everything spotless.

  There was no other word for it.

  The floors shone — not with gloss, but with cleanliness. Surfaces became even, quiet, as if excess noise had been removed from them. Shelves were freed of random objects, yet nothing disappeared — everything simply ended up in its place, exactly where it belonged. The house didn't become alien or impersonal. It became composed.

  Frau Schwarzenegger never sat down.

  I noticed it out of the corner of my eye: she worked standing, bending, kneeling, straightening up — but never sitting. She moved without pauses, without sighs. As if her body was designed precisely for this rhythm.

  The garden changed too.

  The leaves were cleared away. The path cleaned. Even in the farthest corners, the ground became visible.

  The studio remained untouched in the essential sense.

  The paintings stood where they had been.

  The vessel was in place.

  Frau passed by it calmly, without even lingering her gaze. As if she already knew it wasn't to be touched.

  When everything was finished, she removed her gloves. Slowly. Carefully folded them with the rest of her things, just as quickly and heavily as she had once brought them in. At that moment, the agency car appeared outside again.

  "Tomorrow the madam will contact you," Frau Schwarzenegger said, already standing in the doorway. "Regarding future cleanings."

  She said it without a question.

  As a fact.

  I nodded.

  "Thank you," I said.

  She nodded in return.

  Without smiling.

  And left.

  The door closed.

  The car drove away.

  The house remained.

  I walked through the rooms.

  Slowly.

  Without hurry.

  The air was different. Light. Simple. As if there was more space inside — not physically, but somewhere deeper. I suddenly realized I was smiling.

  I felt good.

  Calm.

  Happy.

  Even a little foolish at my own surprise.

  I didn't understand why I hadn't done this earlier.

  Why I had endured for so long, postponed it, convinced myself I had to manage alone.

  Sometimes it's enough to simply allow someone else to put things in order.

  In the house.

  And inside.