In the morning, the cheese was still there.

  I remembered it even before showering — almost with a smirk. The night before, I had placed a piece of it directly on the floor, by the wall. Stupid, really. Something out of cartoons. But the thought that a rat might be running around the house was far more unpleasant than my own na?veté.

  The cheese lay untouched.

  No crumbs.

  No tracks.

  Not the slightest sign of anyone's presence.

  For some reason, that didn't calm me. Quite the opposite. If it had been a mouse, it would have been simpler. Disgusting, but understandable.

  I ate a solid breakfast, then stood under the hot shower for a long time. My body finally began to let go — muscles softening, my head clearing. When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the house was quiet.

  And then I heard voices.

  Not inside — outside.

  Right beneath my window.

  At first I didn't quite understand what I was hearing. Just a conversation — low, with pauses, as if one of the speakers was responding without words. I walked over to the window.

  Snow had already begun to fall. Thin, careful, as if someone had brushed the street with a soft white brush. The edges of the paths, the bottom of the fence, the wet branches of the bushes were lightly outlined in white.

  Joe-Joe was standing beneath my window.

  He was wearing a long dark-blue padded coat almost down to his knees and a fur hat pulled low over his forehead. He looked tired and tense — like someone who hasn't received answers to important questions for several days in a row.

  He was talking to Bridget.

  Leaning toward her, almost in a half-whisper, he said something, waited for a reaction, then spoke again. Bridget sat calmly. Her ear was neatly bandaged — a fresh, clean dressing. After the operation she looked focused: sniffing the air, occasionally letting out a quiet yip — not anxious, but attentive.

  I opened the window.

  "Joe-Joe?" I called.

  He looked up sharply. Froze for a second — then exhaled.

  "Thank God you're home," he said. "May I come in?"

  A minute later he was already in the entryway, brushing snow off his boots. Bridget slipped in after him and immediately began inspecting the house — not running, but checking. Corners. Thresholds. Furniture legs. Working with her nose.

  "I didn't want to bother you," Joe-Joe said, taking off his coat. "I haven't disturbed anyone for days. But Phil..."

  He stopped, then continued:

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  "Phil isn't answering. Messages. Calls. Nothing. For several days now."

  I nodded.

  He hadn't answered me either.

  "This morning I went to his place," Joe-Joe said. "I have a key. He gave it to me a long time ago, just in case."

  He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees.

  "The lock opened fine. But the door — no. I pushed. Harder. As if something heavy had been moved against it from the inside. A wardrobe. Something."

  "And?" I asked.

  "And then suddenly it swung open. Too easily. And at that exact moment I heard noise. Inside. As if something scattered. Fast. In different directions."

  "I thought of cats," he said. "I actually said out loud, 'Phil, did you get cats?'

  I didn't see them. But I heard them. And Bridget heard them."

  At that moment, Bridget gave a quiet bark, as if confirming it.

  "And then a man opened the door," Joe-Joe continued. "Not Phil."

  I felt everything inside tighten.

  "What kind of man?"

  "Taller than me. Much taller. Dark hair. Slightly tanned. Very neat. Well dressed. Too well dressed for a burglar — and that threw me off. But my first thought was exactly that: a burglar."

  "What did he say?"

  "That he was Phil's relative. That Phil was unwell and sleeping. Very polite. Too polite."

  Joe-Joe frowned.

  "I stepped into the house — the entryway — and tried to get to Phil. I said directly that I needed to make sure he was okay. But he didn't let me. Said the doctor had forbidden disturbing him. And he said it in such a way that arguing felt... strange."

  He ran a hand over his face.

  "And only later did I realize I'd left my keys there. Probably put them on the little table by the door. Or dropped them. I was too shaken."

  The entryway fell silent.

  "By the way," he suddenly said, glancing toward the window. "What happened in your yard?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's all black out there," he said. "The fence. The bush. Was there a fire?"

  "At night," I replied. "Lightning."

  He exhaled slowly.

  "Wonderful," he muttered. "Just wonderful."

  He was silent for a few seconds, then looked at me.

  "Listen..." he said more quietly. "Did Phil ever mention any relatives to you?"

  I immediately understood what he meant.

  "No," I said. "Not once."

  Joe-Joe frowned even more.

  "I've known him since childhood," he said. "We practically grew up next to each other. I knew his parents, his grandmother, some distant aunts... but I don't remember anyone like that. Not once."

  He paused, as if sorting through faces, years, memories.

  "Though..." he added uncertainly. "Maybe there was someone. I might just not remember. But still — it's strange."

  He stood up and paced the entryway, stopped by the window, looked out into the yard.

  "He was... too confident," Joe-Joe went on. "Didn't fuss. Didn't get nervous. Didn't try to throw me out rudely. He just... didn't let me go further. As if he had every right."

  At that moment Bridget walked around the room again, stopped by the door, sniffed the crack underneath it and quietly snorted.

  "Even she wasn't angry," Joe-Joe said, nodding at the dog. "And she senses when something's wrong. If it had been a burglar, she'd have torn the leash apart."

  "Right?" he asked her. "You'd have felt it immediately?"

  Bridget gave a quiet yip and turned toward the door.

  He looked at me.

  "You've never seen him before? Not once? Not near the house, not with Phil?"

  I shook my head.

  "Never."

  The words hung between us.

  "Then this is bad," Joe-Joe said calmly. Not dramatically. Calmly. "Because Phil was never the kind of person who suddenly lets strangers live with him."

  I felt a cold rise inside me.

  We fell silent again.

  Outside, the snow kept falling — even, beautiful, almost festive. The world beyond the window looked as if nothing were happening. As if everything were in its place.

  "I think," I said at last, "that Phil shouldn't be left alone. But we also can't just break in."

  Joe-Joe nodded slowly.

  "Yes," he said. "That's exactly what scares me."

  He put on his jacket, took the leash.

  "I'll try again later," he said. "And if he doesn't get in touch... then we'll think further."

  He stopped at the door.

  "If he writes to you — tell me immediately."

  "Of course," I said.

  When the door closed behind him, the house became quiet again.

  But it was no longer morning quiet.

  It was the quiet of waiting.

  I stayed by the window.

  Joe-Joe stepped outside with Bridget. He walked slowly, not heading straight to the car — pacing up and down Violet Street several times, as if unable to decide whether to leave or go back. He stopped, looked toward Phil's house, then took a few more steps.

  Bridget walked beside him — obedient, but tense. Sometimes she lifted her muzzle and looked at Joe-Joe, as if checking whether he understood everything correctly.

  His car was parked by Phil's house, slightly askew — the way people leave cars when they step out briefly and then get delayed. Joe-Joe opened the door, closed it, stepped away again. Rubbed his face with his hands. Even from here I could see how worried he was. This wasn't ordinary concern — not fuss. It was something deeper, heavier.

  Finally, he got into the car.

  The engine didn't start right away. Then the headlights came on, illuminating the snow, the wet asphalt, the edge of the fence. The car moved slowly and disappeared at the end of the street.

  I kept standing by the window.

  And suddenly I realized that I, too, was worried. Not like before. No longer in the background — seriously.

  Who was this man?

  Where did he come from?

  And since when did Phil have... cats?

  I remembered the noise Joe-Joe had described — the way "something scattered." I remembered how Phil spoke about silence, rest, treatment. I remembered the doctor — her calm, overly confident gaze.

  And Phil.

  How he lay on the bed, relaxed, limp, with that strange smile.

  How he said everything was under control.

  And how he hasn't answered for days now. Not me. Not Joe-Joe.

  What is going on?