"Don't come any closer!" I screamed.

  Or rather, I tried to.

  My voice cracked—sharp, too high. I staggered backward, pressed my spine against the wall, and began calling for Phil—loudly, desperately, by name, the way you call when there is no one else left to hope for.

  "Phil! Phil!" I screamed.

  The house was silent.

  Alexander stood perfectly still. He didn't take a step. Didn't reach for me. He just watched—closely, intently, as if waiting for me to understand on my own what was happening.

  I was panicking.

  Everything inside me was in chaos. My heart hammered as if it wanted to tear its way out. I lunged for the door again—and again felt it: resistance, dense and invisible, as though the air itself had turned into a wall.

  I turned, meaning to run for the greenhouse. The garden. Outside. To people. To the cold. To anything.

  And then he said:

  "I'm sorry."

  Calmly. Quietly. Almost with regret.

  And in that same instant, the sound vanished.

  I kept screaming—I felt my throat strain, my chest push air forward, my lips open—

  but there was no sound.

  My lips were moving—not the way I wanted. Words wouldn't form. I tried to draw a deeper breath—and couldn't.

  I looked at my hands.

  They were moving.

  But far too slowly.

  Like underwater.

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  Like in a dream where you try to run—and can't.

  I tried to raise my arm—it trembled, crawled upward by a centimeter, and stopped. My leg shifted—barely. I wanted to take a step—and couldn't.

  I was conscious.

  I understood everything.

  But my body no longer obeyed.

  Alexander came closer.

  Unhurried.

  Without sudden movements.

  He stopped very near.

  I lifted my eyes to him.

  He looked at me for a long time. Directly. Not predatory—but not gentle either. His face was serious, focused. No smile. No irony.

  Brown eyes—deep, warm, far too beautiful for this moment.

  He reached out his hands.

  I wanted to push him away—I couldn't.

  He lifted me easily—as if I weighed almost nothing—and held me against himself. His movements were confident, precise. No rush. No roughness.

  He carried me to the sofa.

  "Molly..." he said softly, almost in a whisper. "Molly... why..."

  He laid me down carefully. Adjusted the pillow. As if I weren't terrified, but simply very tired.

  I tried to cry—no tears came. My body lay motionless. Only my heart was beating, betraying that I was still here.

  He leaned closer.

  "You weren't supposed to see them... I don't understand why you see them...

  People usually can't," he said.

  "Don't be afraid," he continued evenly. "I will never do anything bad to you.

  Under any circumstances."

  He said it not like a promise—but like a statement of fact.

  "This is for your safety," he added. "And for theirs as well."

  I wanted to ask whose—but my body remained чужое, motionless.

  "I'm going to explain a little," he said. "Just... wait a minute. I'll be right back."

  He straightened and turned toward the greenhouse—where the plants stood thickly, where leaves intertwined into a dense, almost living wall.

  And he said to it, quietly but clearly:

  "Gunya, please watch her."

  Everything inside me clenched.

  He said that... to whom?

  There was no reply.

  Only a faint rustle of leaves. Not footsteps. Not movement. Just... presence.

  Alexander disappeared into the greenery.

  About a minute passed. Maybe a little more. Time stretched strangely—thick, viscous.

  He came back.

  In his hands was a transparent vase. Simple. Glass.

  And inside—three flowers.

  The same ones.

  Like Phil's.

  A scent rose from them—gentle, sweet, very pleasant. It didn't strike the nose; it seemed to wrap around you from the inside.

  Alexander set the vase beside me, sat closer, and took my hand.

  Gently. Very carefully.

  I felt the warmth of his fingers.

  He looked straight into my eyes.

  Sadly.

  The way people look when they know there is no going back.

  "Now you'll understand everything," he said softly. "Just endure a little. And don't worry."

  He raised his hand.

  With his thumb, he pressed hard between my eyes—just above the bridge of my nose, at the center of my forehead.

  It was unpleasant.

  Sharp.

  I squeezed my eyes shut instinctively.

  And in that same instant, a sensation came.

  As if something cold and slick had been poured over my face.

  Not water.

  More like juice. Cucumber. Or passion fruit. Something viscous, cool, but strangely pleasant.

  A taste appeared in my mouth.

  Sweet.

  Slightly sour.

  A light tingling ran through my body—not pain, but as if my nerves suddenly remembered they existed.

  I opened my eyes.

  And I saw him.

  That man.

  The one who had wanted to break our money that day.

  The hypnotist.

  It was Alexander.

  He looked exactly the same as he had then.

  But now—

  now I understood that before, I simply hadn't been able to grasp it.

  As if something had always been slipping away.

  As if my gaze hit a barrier—and couldn't pass through.

  As if I hadn't been allowed to see.

  And now—I was.

  A wave of terror rose inside me. I wanted to scream. To cry. To jump up.

  But the scent of the flowers—dense, warm—seemed to hold me. To calm me. To soften the sharp edges of panic.

  Alexander looked calm.

  "Now you see me too," he said.

  He paused.

  "As you can see, we didn't meet at a bus stop."

  And with those words, everything inside me that still clung to "normality" finally collapsed.