I needed to go to the store.

  Supplies were running low — not critically, but in that familiar pre-weekend way, when a little of everything is missing. Bread, milk, vegetables, something for dinner, something "just in case." I got dressed, took my bag, walked to the bus stop, and went to the shopping center — the big, nearest one, the kind everyone goes to when they want to buy everything at once and not come back twice.

  The ride was calm. Snow lay evenly, packed down, the sun filtering through low clouds, making everything seem slightly brighter than usual. There were plenty of cars, but no rush. People were out running small errands — just like mine.

  Inside the shopping center, it was warm and noisy.

  I started at the grocery store. Slowly pushed the cart between aisles, picked up familiar things: vegetables, fruit, cheese, yogurt, bread. I stood for a long time in front of the tea shelf, trying to choose something new, but in the end took the usual one. Then I added cookies, thought for a moment — and added another pack. Just in case.

  I stopped by the household goods store: napkins, candles, batteries. In the bookstore, I flipped through a couple of covers but bought nothing. In the décor shop, I held a glass Christmas ornament in my hands, imagined it at home — and put it back. Not yet.

  I bought myself warm socks with little sheep on them. Just because I liked them.

  By the time I left the shopping center, it was already starting to get dark.

  Car headlights were switching on one by one, people hurried to their cars, doors slammed, engines started.

  I was walking toward the bus stop — and suddenly stopped.

  Black.

  Low.

  Shiny, even in the gray light.

  A supercar.

  It stood slightly off to the side, not in the most convenient spot, but in a way that made it impossible not to notice. The lines were sharp and smooth at the same time. The wheels were far too large for an ordinary parking lot. The car looked as if it had accidentally driven somewhere it didn't belong — like an expensive animal wandering into a чуж forest.

  I felt that familiar strange sensation — the one you get when you've already seen something, but didn't expect to see it again.

  That same car, I thought.

  I didn't go any closer. I just stood there and looked, pretending to search for my keys in my bag. My heart was beating a little faster than it should for an ordinary trip to the store.

  So he's here, I thought.

  The car was empty.

  I held my gaze for a second. For some reason, I wanted to stop. To wait. But it was cold, and the bus was already pulling up. People moved forward, and I went with them — carrying my bags, wearing my hat, trying not to think about anything.

  I didn't notice the ice.

  My foot slid, the bags slipped from my hands, I tried to steady myself — and fell. My knee hit sharply and painfully. For a moment, the world became too close and too loud.

  The bags burst open.

  Groceries spilled out.

  An orange rolled across the snow in a particularly humiliating way.

  The bus had already opened its doors. People rushed inside without looking back. Someone glanced briefly, someone didn't notice at all. The doors closed. The bus drove away.

  I was left sitting in the snow — confused, angry, in shock.

  And then someone ran up.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Hey, are you okay?" I heard.

  Hands were already gathering my things. Quickly. Confidently. Someone picked up my notebook, someone caught the runaway orange, someone handed me a bag.

  "Careful," the same voice said. "Don't stand up too fast."

  He offered his hand.

  I took it — and immediately realized that my knee hurt more than I wanted to admit. He helped me up gently, almost without effort, as if I weighed less than my shopping bags.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Probably..." I said — and immediately realized I was lying.

  And then he looked at me.

  Directly.

  Attentively.

  Not politely — but as if checking whether I was really there.

  And it felt like a jolt of electricity.

  Not painful.

  Strange.

  As if something in the air had shifted — just slightly, but enough to make everything sharper. I suddenly felt the cold too clearly, the smell of snow, the weight of the bags, the warmth of his hand.

  He didn't let go right away.

  He held on — firmly, calmly, as if this were the most natural state of things.

  "You're sure you can stand?" he asked.

  I nodded, even though my knee throbbed and everything inside felt like it had just gone through a sudden stop.

  "Yes. Thank you. I... didn't see the ice."

  "It's tricky here," he said calmly. "Especially in the evening."

  He only released my hand once he was sure I was standing steadily. Then he stepped back — just far enough not to intrude, but not to disappear.

  That was when I really looked at him.

  He was very well put together. Not ostentatiously, not showy — but in the way people look when they're used to good things and don't feel the need to prove it. His jacket fit perfectly. His movements were precise, economical. There was no rush in him. None at all.

  "The bus is gone," I said, for no particular reason.

  "I saw," he replied. "Is it far for you?"

  I named my street.

  He nodded and smiled — and the smile was unexpected. Not wide, not performative. Almost personal.

  "I'll take you," he said.

  Again, it didn't sound like an offer.

  I opened my mouth to refuse — and said nothing.

  The pause stretched a fraction of a second longer than is usual between strangers.

  "If you don't mind," he added more softly.

  I looked at my bags. At my knee. At the empty bus stop.

  "All right," I said finally. "If it's not a problem."

  He smiled again, this time broadly, cheerfully.

  "Not a problem," he said.

  We walked.

  And only then did I realize where we were going.

  Toward the black car.

  That very one.

  I slowed my step. My heart sped up again, but differently now — not from surprise, but from recognition that hadn't yet formed into a thought, but was already rising somewhere inside.

  He opened the door, letting me go first.

  "Careful," he said again.

  I sat down. The interior was warm, quiet, as if cut off from the outside world. The scent was subtle, complex. Not perfume. Something alive, floral, with a barely noticeable sweetness. It touched memory not as an image, but as a sensation.

  The door closed softly, almost silently.

  He walked around the car and sat behind the wheel.

  And at that exact moment — when he placed his hands on the steering wheel, when the dashboard light illuminated his profile — everything suddenly fell into place.

  That strange, delayed understanding washed over me.

  That same car.

  That same man people had talked about.

  The one who appeared — and disappeared.

  We started talking.

  At first, about nothing — the weather, how quickly it gets dark in winter, how treacherous the snow was today. Then a little more freely. His voice was calm, even, with a soft irony, as if he was used to speaking in a way that didn't crowd the people around him.

  "Alexander," he said simply.

  "Molly," I replied. "Thank you for not walking past."

  "You're welcome," he said. "The ice is choosing its victims today."

  I noticed people looking at us.

  They turned their heads.

  Some slowed down.

  Some openly took out their phones.

  The supercar was doing its job.

  "I'm sorry," he said, almost apologetically. "It attracts too much attention."

  "I noticed," I said. "It feels like we're part of an open-air car show."

  He smirked.

  "I live nearby," he said casually. "Staying with a relative."

  And after saying that, he looked at me.

  Not straight on.

  Out of the corner of his eye.

  As if checking what, exactly, would change in my expression.

  I pretended not to notice.

  Even though I noticed everything.

  "I won't be able to drive right up to your building."

  He didn't explain why.

  And I didn't ask.

  We parked.

  Right where I had already seen the car before.

  He got out first, walked around, and took my bags as if it had been decided in advance.

  "I'll carry them," he said. "After a fall, you're granted indulgence."

  We walked down the street. He walked normally; I limped slightly.

  And that's when the feeling appeared.

  As if all the neighbors had decided to look out at the same time.

  As if curtains shifted slightly.

  As if the windows suddenly became especially curious.

  He carefully set the bags down by my door, made sure I was standing steadily — and didn't come in.

  Didn't even take a step inside.

  That felt... right.

  "Everything okay?" he asked again. "No dizziness? Your knee?"

  "All good," I said. "Really."

  He nodded.

  A pause hung between us — short, dense.

  "If you need help," he said calmly, "any kind...

  just ask."

  He nodded toward the street.

  "I'm across the road. Not far to walk."

  He smiled — without irony this time.

  Just warmly.

  Under the streetlights, it suddenly seemed to me that I'd seen him somewhere before. But where could I have seen him? He just looked like someone. But like whom?

  He said goodbye simply — a nod, another smile — and walked away down the street, lightly, confidently, as if nothing special had happened.

  And inside me was the feeling that everything had happened.

  I closed the door and only then realized how shaken I was. My heart was beating faster than usual, my thoughts tangled. I remembered that I still hadn't passed along Phil's greeting. And that I hadn't really said anything at all. My head was a mess, with fragments of phrases, looks, pauses sticking out.

  I went into the hallway and automatically looked in the mirror.

  "Oh my God..." I said out loud.

  My hair was messy.

  My cheeks were red from the cold.

  So was my nose.

  An old jacket, a twisted scarf — I looked like someone who'd just been picked up off the ice. Which, in fact, was true.

  "Like a seal," I concluded. "And not the most graceful one."

  Such a pleasant man.

  Such a car.

  And me — looking like this.

  On top of that, I fell.

  The humiliation was complete and final.

  I sat down and carefully checked my knee. No blood, skin intact — just a hard, deep ache. It would pass.

  The first thing I checked was the little plate with the cookies.

  The cookies were still there.

  All of them.

  "Well, at least no surprises here," I muttered.

  I put the groceries away, glancing toward the window — toward Phil's house. The light there was warm and soft.

  I put the kettle on and made hot bergamot tea. Steam rose gently, the scent was delicate and calming. I had dinner slowly, sitting at the table, feeling the tension gradually let go.