I said goodbye to them and walked toward Phil's house.

  The snow beneath my feet was soft, almost soundless. White, fresh, as if the street had just exhaled. The air was cold and transparent, and because of that everything around looked too sharp — the houses, the fences, the trees.

  I walked around the house in a slow circle.

  First, I looked into the windows facing the street. The lights were on, but inside everything was drowned in plants. Leaves reflected in the glass, overlapping, creating glare, shadows, layers of reflections. Flowers, stems, damp greenery — all of it turned the windows into mirrors. Nothing could be made out. It was as if the house did not want to be looked into.

  I went on, toward the back garden.

  The garden was exactly as always. Strangely calm. Evergreens held their shape, the snow lay neatly, without breaking anything. The small pond was half covered with thin ice; the water beneath it was dark and still. Everything looked alive and at the same time withdrawn, holding its breath.

  I was about to turn back when it happened.

  First — a shadow.

  Then — a movement of air.

  And in the next moment, two birds descended into the garden.

  Large.

  White.

  Completely out of place — and because of that, even more real.

  They looked like herons: long legs, elongated necks, smooth, confident movements. Their feathers were clean, almost glowing against the snow. They landed lightly, as if they knew this place. One stepped closer to the pond, the other froze with its wings folded and looked around.

  I stopped.

  I even stopped breathing — not out of fear, but out of some sudden sense of respect. They were incredibly beautiful. Not decorative, not "cute," but majestic. Like beings that do not arrive by accident.

  Perhaps the garden had drawn them in.

  Its quiet.

  The greenery in the middle of winter.

  The water.

  Phil had always known how to create places where life felt safe.

  The birds stayed only briefly. One slowly lowered its beak to the water, the other took a few steps across the snow, leaving clear prints. Then, at the same time, they spread their wings.

  The air trembled.

  Their takeoff was quiet, almost soundless. The white silhouettes rose and disappeared behind the treetops as suddenly as they had appeared.

  For a few more seconds I stood there, staring at the empty spot by the pond, as if hoping they might return. Then I slowly exhaled.

  Phil's car was still in its place.

  As always — in the front yard, near the garage. He never parked it inside. The garage was packed with everything related to the garden: bags of soil, crates of tools, old watering cans, pots, hoses, wooden structures, frames, stands. There was simply no room for a car — and it never seemed like there was meant to be.

  I stepped closer.

  The snow around the car was untouched — no fresh footprints. For some reason, that caught my attention. I looked inside through the window, just in case. The interior looked normal: nothing overturned, nothing out of place. Everything where it should be. As if Phil had just stepped out for a moment and was about to return.

  That only made the unease worse.

  I walked around the car and returned to the house. I stood at the entrance for a second, listening. The house was silent. But it wasn't an empty silence — it was restrained, dense.

  I pressed the doorbell.

  The sound went inside — dull, muffled, as if sinking into greenery.

  Almost immediately, there was movement behind the door.

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  Not footsteps.

  Not voices.

  A rustling.

  Quiet, uneven, as if something — or someone — was moving slowly, trying not to make a sound. I froze, my finger still on the button.

  And then — a sneeze.

  Soft.

  Held back.

  I pulled my hand away.

  My heart jerked sharply, far too hard for such a small sound.

  "Phil?" I said quietly. "It's me."

  There was movement behind the door again. Closer now. Very cautious. As if someone was approaching but not daring to come right up.

  I stood there, staring at the door, and suddenly felt how thin it really was. Just an ordinary door. Wood. A lock. Nothing special.

  But on the other side there was something that was in no hurry to open it.

  I rang the bell again.

  And again.

  The sound went inside and died, dissolving among the plants. There was no response.

  Then I started knocking.

  At first carefully, with my knuckles. Then harder — with my palm, dull and insistent. The sound echoed in my hands and came back to me as empty resonance.

  "Phil..." I said softly.

  It felt awkward to shout in the street. As if all this snow — white and fluffy — all this calm day was not meant for shouting. But the anxiety was already spilling over.

  "Phil!" I called louder.

  A pause.

  "Phil!"

  No one opened.

  Behind the door there was no more rustling, no movement. As if the house had closed in on itself again, pulled everything inside, and decided to remain silent.

  My heart was beating fast and uneven.

  What was I supposed to do?

  I stepped away from the house and slowly walked down the street.

  My steps slowed on their own. Thoughts darted around, refusing to settle. Call the police? Now? Or wait a little longer? Nothing had technically happened — except that everything about this felt wrong.

  Everything around was already decorated for Christmas.

  Garlands hung on fences, wreaths with red ribbons filled the windows, lampposts were wrapped in glowing strands. Somewhere reindeer figures shimmered, somewhere stars. The snow lay smooth and clean, almost ceremonial. White and fluffy, as if the town had decided to pretend, for a while, that it was calm and festive.

  It irritated me.

  Against that backdrop, the anxiety felt especially sharp — like a stain you can't erase no matter how long you stare at the lights.

  I was almost pulling out my phone when someone called out to me.

  "Moooolly!"

  The voice was raspy, but cheerful.

  I turned around.

  Old Mr. Jenkins was sitting outside, as quiet as ever. Cats moved around him, rubbing against the legs of his chair, weaving their tails together. Behind him, a Christmas garland blinked on the house. He was smiling broadly, with a strangely childlike delight.

  "Molly! How are you?" he repeated. "Haven't seen you in ages!"

  And he laughed.

  I stopped, stunned.

  "Mr. Jenkins..." I said. "How did you... how did you know it was me?"

  He tilted his head, as if listening to something I couldn't hear.

  "How could I not?" he said. "You walk in a particular way. And you breathe in a particular way. I always recognize you."

  Something inside me tightened softly.

  He was almost blind.

  I stepped closer — and only then noticed the bandages. They were on his arms, on his side; part of his clothes hid them, but it was clear these were not scratches. His face looked different too — tired, slightly drawn.

  "What happened to you?" I asked.

  He waved it off as if it were nothing.

  "Stupidity," he said. "A power bank. Exploded right next to me. Must've been old, faulty. That's all."

  "My God..." I exhaled. "Were you in the hospital?"

  "Oh yes," he nodded. "Stayed there a bit. They patched me up. I'm sturdy — don't worry. Already recovering."

  He smiled again, and the smile was astonishingly alive for someone who had been through that.

  I suddenly realized I really hadn't seen him in a long time. Not outside, not by his house. I'd noticed his absence once — and then just kept going, as we all do.

  "Good to see you," he said. "It's been nothing but silence around here."

  The cats stirred at his feet; one jumped onto his lap, another settled beside him. Above them, the Christmas lights flickered softly, as if nothing bad could possibly happen in this world.

  "I'm glad too," I said at last. "Very."

  I wished him a speedy recovery, he nodded, still smiling, and I walked on.

  I left the street, turned the corner — and only there allowed myself to stop. The snow lay untouched, dense, white. My steps thudded dully into the silence. I walked slowly, thinking, turning the same thoughts over and over, as if spinning them long enough might produce the right answer.

  I took out my phone and called Jo-Jo.

  I spoke quietly, almost in a whisper, though no one was around.

  He answered immediately, but his voice was tense.

  "I can't today, unfortunately," he said. "At all. My wife called — she urgently needs help. I really can't get away."

  I closed my eyes.

  "Tomorrow," he added. "Tomorrow I'll come for sure."

  "Did Phil write to you?" I asked.

  "No," he said. "No message. No call. Nothing."

  Something inside me tightened again.

  "I'll keep trying to reach him," Jo-Jo continued. "And if by tomorrow it's still dead silence — no options left. I'm calling the police. No hesitation."

  "Okay," I said. "That's what we'll do."

  We were silent for a second.

  "I don't like this," he said finally. "Not at all."

  "Neither do I," I replied.

  The call ended.

  I put the phone in my pocket and walked on.

  And only after a few steps did another feeling catch up with me — strange, delayed.

  His wife.

  I stopped.

  I hadn't known Jo-Jo had a wife. He had never mentioned her. Not in passing, not casually. In my mind, he had always existed on his own — with Bridget, with his errands, with his trips, with that compact, slightly frantic life of his.

  For some reason, that realization struck harder than it should have.

  Not jealousy — no.

  More an awareness of how much remains unseen in people, even when you think you know them.

  I suddenly saw him clearly — as if he were standing right in front of me.

  Jo-Jo was short, stocky, rounded, as if built from soft shapes. His glasses always slipped slightly down his nose, and he kept adjusting them with a gesture that held no irritation or fuss — just habit. His face was kind, open, with that particular softness found in people who truly know how to worry about others, without noise.

  He was sensitive. Not intrusive, not loud, but attentive — noticing when someone was tired, when something was left unsaid, when silence lasted too long. He always thought of others first: of Phil, of Bridget, of the things that "needed to be handled," of making sure no one was left without help.

  And that was exactly why the thought of him having a wife suddenly felt important. Someone who knew him like that every day. Someone for whom his kindness was not an episode, but a life.

  I walked on.

  The snow creaked softly under my feet. Somewhere behind me, Christmas lights kept blinking as if nothing were wrong.

  Cars passed by.

  Some with reindeer antlers on the mirrors, with garlands, trying to look festive. Others completely ordinary, without decorations, as if refusing to participate in the mood. Old ones. New ones. Small. Large. All different — and all fleeting.

  And then — one.

  Black. Smooth. Shining like dark water. It didn't stand out by noise — on the contrary, it moved too calmly. Not rushing. Not looking around. As if it knew exactly where it was going.

  A supercar, flashed through my mind.

  What was a car like that doing here?

  This neighborhood wasn't meant for that. Here people parked work vehicles, family cars, scratched, worn, with life written all over them. Not something like this — spotless, ageless, without history.

  I caught myself thinking about the car again.

  About how long it had been since I drove.

  How exhausting it was to depend on distances and schedules.

  How freedom sometimes begins very mundanely.

  And at that moment, the car slowed down.

  Smoothly. Almost imperceptibly.

  The turn signal blinked once — brief, restrained.

  It turned around and neatly parked by the curb a little ahead of me.

  The engine fell silent.

  Snow kept falling — thick, white, soft. Streetlights reflected in the black lacquer, stretching, fracturing, disappearing.

  What a beautiful car.

  I felt an urge to look at it more closely.

  I walked slowly forward, stealing glances toward the supercar.

  I wondered who was behind the wheel.