The morning was cold and clear.

  I went out into the yard and dealt with what was left after the fire. The charred branches snapped easily, almost without resistance. The bush that had been alive and dense not long ago now crumbled in my hands. The fence had blackened, the wood had blistered, but the fire hadn't gone any farther—as if it had stopped of its own accord.

  I worked in silence.

  Without thoughts.

  Just doing what needed to be done.

  I decided not to disturb Phil anymore.

  The doctor had made it clear: he needed rest. And if she asked me to keep an eye on him, then it truly mattered. I wouldn't come without reason. I'd write later. Ask how he was. Tomorrow. Let him regain his strength.

  When I finished in the yard, I got ready and went into town.

  I decided to visit an exhibition—by some artist whose name meant nothing to me. It turned out to be nothing but spots. Large, confident, well-lit spots. I walked through the hall slowly, without irritation but without interest either. Still, the walk itself was welcome.

  The city center was already preparing for Christmas.

  Garlands stretched across the streets, shop windows glowed with warm light, trees appeared where empty squares had been just days before. The smell of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, and sweet pastries mixed with the cold air. People moved slowly—with bags, with coffee, with a sense of anticipation. The city seemed to be learning how to rejoice in advance.

  I walked through it all and felt a strange calm.

  When I returned home, the silence next door suddenly unsettled me.

  Old Mr. Jenkins hadn't been seen for several days. Usually they brought him outside to sit—in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. He was nearly blind but heard well. Every time I passed, I said loudly:

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  "Hello, how are you?"

  And he always answered.

  Always called me by name.

  He recognized my voice.

  Now he wasn't there.

  Probably cold, I thought.

  After all, it wasn't summer anymore.

  The next day, closer to noon, I finally wrote to Phil. Briefly. No extras.

  He didn't reply.

  I assumed he was sleeping. Or away for treatment. Or simply not up to his phone. I didn't write again.

  I worked on a painting—it was almost finished. Only the details remained, the kind you can't rush. Then I went to the supermarket and stocked up properly: snow was promised. I caught myself thinking how inconvenient life was without a car. I had a license. It was time to think about getting one.

  For now, the money was there.

  After my parents' deaths, something had remained. Enough—for the house, for life, for pauses. The paintings sold for good money. Not steadily. And somewhere at the edge of my mind, the thought was already forming that stability would have to be considered.

  But not now.

  I came home, carried the bags inside, closed the door, and stayed in the quiet.

  Winter was very close.

  It was already evening.

  And then the rustling started again.

  At first somewhere far away, as if inside the wall. Then closer. Here and there—short, uneven, as if someone were testing the space by ear. I froze and listened. The sound wasn't constant; it was waiting. That was more irritating than if it had been obvious.

  I searched the entire house.

  Under the couch, inside the closets, the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, the space behind the washing machine. Nothing. No traces, no smell, no movement. The house looked ordinary. Too ordinary.

  So I decided to act differently.

  I set an ambush.

  I turned off the lights, settled into an armchair, unmoving, listening. At some point it even seemed ridiculous—like a child's game. I remembered cartoons. Mice like cheese, right? At least that's how it's always shown.

  I put a piece of cheese on the floor.

  Right in the middle of the kitchen.

  "Heh," I said out loud—and immediately felt embarrassed by my own voice.

  The plan was simple: if it was a mouse, it would come. If it was a rat...

  I tried not to finish that thought.

  I considered calling someone to deal with it. There are people like that—they come, look around, set traps, solve the problem. But the thought stopped halfway. I had already called one unknown specialist—a plumber. And we knew how that ended.

  No.

  Better to ask around first.

  Maybe someone else had dealt with this.

  Maybe it was ordinary.

  I thought of Phil.

  And immediately remembered that he still hadn't replied.

  I checked the time.

  Late.

  All right.

  Tomorrow.

  If he doesn't answer, I'll call.

  Or stop by, if he's home.

  I turned off the light and lay down.

  The cheese stayed on the floor.

  The radiators gave off a quiet, pleasant hiss. Not тревожный—on the contrary, even and soothing, like the house breathing. The blanket was soft, the pillow comfortable—the kind you sink into without effort.

  Outside, rain began again. First sparse and cautious, then heavier—falling on the asphalt, the roof, the garden, washing the day away.

  I was tired.

  Thoughts grew thick and heavy, stopped catching on one another. And then—almost without words—a simple, warm desire arrived: for someone to be there. Warm. Familiar. Just lying beside me, breathing, occupying space in the dark so I wouldn't be alone.

  Nothing more.

  The thought didn't hurt—it was gentle.

  I turned onto my side, pulled the blanket up to my shoulders.

  The hiss of the radiators, the rain, the warmth—everything aligned.

  And I fell asleep.