I suddenly realized that I hadn't asked Joe-Joe for his phone number.

  We had been standing in the hallway. He was anxious, speaking fast, unevenly, and I was too stunned by everything that was happening—Phil, the man, the door—for that simple thought to even cross my mind.

  I looked at my phone.

  And dialed Phil again.

  Once.

  Then a second time.

  Then again.

  Five times in a row.

  The ring tone was normal. Steady. No glitches. No sign that the phone was switched off. Just silence in response.

  I set the phone down on the table.

  I tried to keep myself busy. Put away the dishes. Wiped the countertop. Moved a chair. Anything to keep my hands occupied. But every time I heard a sound from outside—a car, footsteps, a door slamming somewhere in the distance—I rushed to the window.

  I watched Phil's house.

  The gate.

  The path.

  The windows.

  No one came out.

  Not Phil.

  Not the strange man.

  About two hours passed.

  Then I saw Joe-Joe's car.

  He pulled up quickly, parked unevenly, almost at an angle. Bridget was with him. He got out without hesitation and went straight toward Phil's house.

  I watched him press the doorbell.

  Once.

  Again.

  Then he held the button down for a long time.

  Nothing.

  He stepped back, walked along the fa?ade, peered into one window, then another. Rose onto his toes. Bent down. Bridget tugged at the leash, sniffing the ground, letting out a soft whine.

  The door never opened.

  A minute later, he was already running toward me.

  "Did you see anything?" he asked from the doorway without taking off his jacket. "Did anyone come out? Him? That man?"

  "No," I said. "But I wasn't at the window the whole time."

  He exhaled sharply.

  "This isn't normal," he said. "Not at all. I think we need to call the police."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Something inside me tightened.

  "Let's do this," I said. "I'll try going over myself in an hour. If they don't open again—then we call the police. Together."

  He nodded immediately, without arguing.

  "Okay. That's what we'll do."

  He quickly wrote his phone number on a folded newspaper lying on the small table by the entrance and glanced at his watch.

  "I have to take Bridget to the vet," he said. "Post-op checkup. We go every day—can't skip it."

  Bridget lifted her head and looked at him calmly, trustingly.

  "I'll be waiting for your message," he said. "About an hour."

  "I'll text," I replied.

  He left quickly.

  The car again.

  Movement again.

  Then silence.

  I was alone.

  And for the first time since all this began, I didn't think about the strange man, or the cats, or the door.

  I thought that if, in an hour, Phil's door still didn't open,

  then this would no longer be just strange.

  It would be truly frightening.

  I went to the bathroom.

  I needed to pull myself together—literally. I turned on the cold water and washed my face for a long time, until my skin started to sting. I breathed slowly, trying not to replay the same thoughts over and over.

  And that was when I noticed it again.

  The wall.

  I placed my palm against it—and immediately pulled my hand back.

  It was warm. Not just "not cold," but truly warm, as if someone had been standing behind the tiles moments ago, or as if a hot pipe ran there. I froze, listening. No sound. No movement. Only the steady rush of water.

  My left shoulder ached again.

  Familiar. Unpleasant. Pulling. Neuralgia. It always came back when I was nervous, as if it had been waiting for exactly this moment. I clenched my teeth, massaged my shoulder, and turned off the water.

  My phone was lying on the washing machine.

  The screen lit up.

  A message.

  From Phil.

  I grabbed the phone too fast, almost dropped it, quickly put on my glasses.

  I'm fine.

  I'm home, resting, recovering.

  I'm trying to spend less time on my phone.

  My second cousin is helping me.

  Thank you for caring and worrying—but really, there's no need.

  I'm completely fine.

  I read the message several times.

  The tone was calm. Even warm. Almost ordinary. No mistakes. No haste. Exactly how Phil used to write.

  Second cousin.

  I slowly lowered the phone.

  My chest felt slightly lighter—and at the same time heavier. As if the anxiety hadn't been removed, but carefully covered with a blanket.

  "Completely fine," I repeated to myself.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

  My face was tired. A little pale. But rational. Composed.

  "Okay," I said out loud. "Okay."

  My thoughts raced, clinging to one another. Why wouldn't this cousin open the door? If Phil was home—why wasn't anyone coming out? Maybe he'd simply stepped away and I hadn't noticed. Maybe I was overthinking everything.

  I called Joe-Joe.

  He didn't answer immediately. In the background, there were voices and barking—sharp, echoing. The clinic. Bridget. He spoke more quietly than usual.

  "They're treating her ear right now," he said.

  I told him about Phil's message. About everything being "fine." About the second cousin.

  Joe-Joe exhaled—short, hard.

  "I don't like this," he said. "At all. It's suspicious. And not normal."

  He paused.

  "I'll come as soon as I'm done here. But if you're close—go. Just look. Don't force anything. Just look."

  I was already putting on my coat.

  Outside, it was cold and damp in a winter way, but the snow wasn't dirty yet. There was a lot of it—white, fresh, soft. It lay in an even layer, muffling sounds, making the street quieter and wider than it really was. Footprints hadn't ruined it yet—as if the day were trying to preserve this state.

  The sky hung low, heavy, milky-gray—not threatening, just tired.

  I walked quickly, barely looking around. The snow crunched softly under my feet, and the sound was strangely calming, even though everything inside me was stretched tight like a string.

  And then—coming toward me—they appeared.

  The gossiping neighbor with the small dog. And her husband.

  She wore a dark red winter coat, with that same long nose and the habit of stopping exactly where something was happening.

  He was stocky, silent, in an old jacket.

  "Oh," she said immediately. "It's you."

  The little dog tugged at the leash, pulling toward Phil's house.

  "You're going to see him?" she asked, squinting. "Haven't seen him in a while. Strange."

  "He's resting," I said automatically.

  She looked at me carefully. Too carefully.

  "Ah," she said slowly. "Yes. Of course."

  Her husband coughed and looked away.

  "Excuse me," I said. "Have you, by any chance, seen a man around here... not local?"

  I was surprised at how easily I began describing him—as if his image had already been standing in front of my eyes for a long time. Dark hair. Tall. Slim build. Very neatly dressed.

  She didn't hesitate.

  "I have," she said immediately. "The day before yesterday."

  Something cold clicked inside me.

  "He was walking around," she continued, "back and forth. Stopping by houses. Looking at the nameplates near the mailboxes. Really staring, like he was searching for a specific name."

  "Did you talk to him?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said with faint pride. "I asked who he was looking for. And he was so polite, so calm... said he was looking for Pylip."

  She frowned slightly, trying to remember.

  "Pylip... what was it... Pylip... Kravets, I think. Or Kraves. I don't remember exactly."

  My heart began to pound harder.

  "And what did you tell him?"

  "That there's no one like that here," she shrugged. "I know everyone. Our street is small."

  She paused, then added:

  "Then I thought... well, last names can be similar. And I told him, 'But we do have Phil. His last name is something like... Kravitz.' Or something like that."

  A chill ran down my spine.

  "And he—" I began.

  "And he immediately looked that way," she nodded toward Phil's house. "Didn't even ask again. Just went. Calmly. Like he knew he'd found what he was looking for."

  She looked at me more closely now.

  "So? Did something happen?"

  I didn't answer right away.

  The snow around us was too white. Too smooth. As if the street were pretending to be ordinary.

  "Thank you," I said finally. "You've helped me a lot."

  She said something else—about strange times, about people wandering around, about needing to be careful. I barely heard her.

  I was already looking at Phil's house.

  And thinking only one thing:

  He wasn't looking for a house.

  He was looking for a name.