In the morning, I received a call.

  The voice was familiar — professional, precise, stripped of unnecessary intonation.

  "Good morning, Miss Shrimp. This is Madame Brute from the agency."

  I recognized her immediately — the small woman in the lemon-colored coat.

  She asked whether everything had gone well, whether I was satisfied with the cleaning. I said yes. Very satisfied. Even more than I had expected.

  "Then I suggest we set a regular schedule," Madame Brute said.

  "Once a week or once every two weeks?"

  "I live alone and don't have any pets yet, so once every two weeks," I replied.

  "More often isn't necessary."

  We agreed on dates, price, and timing. The conversation was brief and clear. When the line went dead, the house fell quiet again — not anxiously this time, but calmly. I caught myself with a strange feeling, as if another point of support had appeared in my life — simple, practical.

  Some time later, Phil texted me.

  "Would it work if I stop by today?

  I've prepared everything. I'll take the container."

  I glanced toward the studio.

  "Of course. Thank you again so much. You always help me out. I'm truly grateful."

  He arrived closer to noon.

  I noticed the changes immediately, though I tried not to show it. Phil had always been tall and broad, but now he seemed even larger. His belly had noticeably rounded, pushing against his jacket. He moved confidently, briskly, even looked refreshed. I thought perhaps the swelling was distorting my perception — and immediately dismissed the thought. It was none of my business.

  "Well then," he said with a smile, "shall we go?"

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  The container stood in the studio, on its heavy wheeled base. Together, carefully, we rolled it outside. The wheels creaked but obeyed. The glass remained still, as if everything inside had already been prepared for the move.

  It was mid-November.

  The garden was still holding on — many evergreen plants, dark, dense leaves, damp soil. The air was cold but not sharp. Everything around looked alive despite the season.

  We rolled the container across the street — slowly, carefully.

  Cats suddenly darted under our feet.

  Freya's cats.

  They ran back and forth, crossed the road, tangled themselves around our legs, peered into the transparent glass as if sensing something. Phil stopped, waited for them to scatter, and only then did we continue.

  "They're everywhere," he said calmly. "Curious creatures."

  Everything in his house was already prepared.

  The far room was a greenhouse. Large windows opened directly onto the garden. Despite November, it was bright and green inside. Plants stretched upward and outward, intertwined. In one corner, a small waterfall murmured softly. Nearby, on a shelf, stood a device. Inside it — the same cut, fragrant flower.

  It had wilted, but not decayed.

  As if stuck in some intermediate state.

  "I'm studying it," Phil said. "The pollen, the structure. It takes time."

  We set the container in place.

  I stepped closer. Whatever was inside had changed. Its form was different now — more porous, looser. The black dots moved faster than before, shifting through the medium as if following their own internal logic.

  "See?" Phil said. "They look like tadpoles."

  I nodded.

  Suddenly he lifted his pant leg.

  "Here," he said simply.

  His legs were enormous. Swollen. The socks constricted the skin, leaving deep indentations.

  "Are you sure this is a normal reaction?" I asked quietly.

  "That the doctors are controlling it?"

  "I'm sure," he answered calmly. "I feel good. It takes time. They warned me. I'm taking the medication."

  He spoke confidently, without doubt. And he did look energetic.

  "Jo-Jo is busy at the moment," he added.

  "The dog has an ear infection. He's running around with her. So I've had to deal with sales and the internet myself... I don't like that. I hope Bridget recovers soon and he can help again."

  We stood in the greenhouse a little longer.

  The container stood quietly among the plants.

  The waterfall murmured.

  The garden beyond the window was dark green, alive.

  "Thank you," I said. "For taking this on. For her."

  Phil nodded.

  "I'll buy everything needed for feeding and maintenance in the next few days," he said evenly.

  "Mixtures, tools. I'm already figuring out how to handle it."

  He looked at the container — attentively, without haste.

  "Come visit," he added. "She'll miss you. But here she's in good hands."

  I smiled — faintly, but sincerely.

  "I know."

  We said goodbye at the door. No hugs, no ceremony. Just people who had agreed on something important and didn't need further confirmation.

  I stepped outside.

  The cold was steady, wintery, without autumn's hesitation. On the road, almost at the edge, lay a woman's glove. Beautiful. Light-colored. With fur trim. Expensive — that was obvious at once.

  Freya's cats were playing with it, tossing it, pinning it under their paws, rolling it along the wet asphalt.

  I picked up the glove, shook it clean, and looked around — no one nearby. Then I walked to the bush by my fence and carefully hung it on a branch, visible from the road.

  If the owner returned, she would find it.

  The cats lost interest and ran off.

  I went home.

  In the evening, a thunderstorm began.

  At first — distant, muffled thunder, as if someone were rolling heavy objects beyond the horizon. Then the sky darkened abruptly, and the air grew dense, saturated, as though something inevitable was approaching.

  Lightning tore open the sky — white, sharp. Thunder followed almost immediately. The house shuddered. The windows trembled.

  I turned off the lights and went to the window.

  Rain came suddenly, in sheets. Water streamed down the glass in quick, uneven paths. Lightning flashed more and more often, illuminating the garden, the fence, the empty road — for fractions of a second, like frames from someone else's film.

  And somewhere on the other side of the street, beyond trees and glass, in Phil's greenhouse, the container stood among the plants — under the same sky, in the same storm.