I still couldn't stop worrying about Phil.

  He said everything was fine, joked, smiled — but he looked sick. Not just tired, but truly unwell: heavy, overloaded by his own body, as if it had begun to get in his way. As if living inside it required effort. I kept catching myself returning to this thought again and again, even though I tried not to interfere where I didn't belong.

  Our street was on every news channel.

  At first there were brief mentions, then full reports. Police tape, yellow barriers, people with microphones, camera flashes. Crowds of onlookers wandered back and forth, taking photos, arguing, speculating. Then, apparently, the "meteorite" was removed — quickly, without comments. But the crater remained. Black, rough, out of place. For several more days people came just to look, until the services finally patched the hole and returned at least the appearance of normality to the street.

  A few days passed.

  And then Jo-Jo wrote.

  He said he'd arranged the Christmas trees and was ready to go. Phil wouldn't be able to join us — he wasn't feeling well. So we would buy one for him too. He wanted one in a pot, with roots — a mix of fir and spruce.

  I agreed immediately.

  "Let's go," I wrote. "Of course."

  That day Jo-Jo arrived and gave a short honk.

  I went outside — and saw that he wasn't alone in the car.

  A woman was sitting in the passenger seat.

  "This is Leah," Jo-Jo said as he got out. "My wife."

  We introduced ourselves.

  Leah was very beautiful — not striking, not demonstrative, but quietly so. Shiny black hair to her shoulders, a neat haircut, kind, attentive eyes. She radiated a sense of reliability. It was immediately clear: she and Jo-Jo loved and respected each other. Without words.

  Bridget was sitting importantly in the back seat.

  And here I couldn't help myself.

  She was wearing a knitted coat — a true work of art. Dense knit, perfect fit, a neat collar, buttons. The color was complex and warm, somewhere between cream and gray-pink. It wasn't "dog clothing" — it was a real garment.

  "Wow..." I said. "That's haute couture."

  Jo-Jo laughed.

  "Alexander knitted it," he said. "Said Bridget gets cold and that this simply won't do."

  Bridget, as if confirming her status, lifted her head and looked out the window with the expression of a creature completely satisfied with life.

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  We drove off.

  Slowly, calmly, along the winter road. The snow lay dense and white, the sun occasionally breaking through the clouds. Inside the car it was warm and cozy.

  "Phil told me," Jo-Jo said, watching the road. "About the lightning. About the fire at your place. And..." he glanced in the mirror, "...that you fell near the store."

  "Oh yes," I said. "My star appearance."

  "Lately," I continued, "it feels like someone is filming an absurd TV series on our street."

  "How so?" Leah asked.

  "Well," I counted on my fingers. "First the fire. Then the lightning. Then the sudden 'meteorite.' Before that, the sewer decided to remind us of itself. And our elderly neighbor's power bank exploded right next to him."

  "My God..." Leah said.

  "Yes," I nodded. "But everyone's alive. That seems to be the main genre."

  I didn't mention the bowl.

  When we arrived at the tree market, I got out first.

  And only then did everything become clear.

  Jo-Jo walked around the car, opened the trunk, and took out a folding wheelchair. Quickly, confidently, without fuss. He rolled it to the passenger door and helped Leah transfer. She did it calmly, habitually — without awkwardness, without explanations.

  I froze.

  A heavy, delayed realization washed over me — not pity, not fear, but understanding: I hadn't known. I hadn't guessed. And I suddenly felt embarrassed for all my earlier thoughts in which this simply hadn't existed.

  Leah noticed my look and gave a slight smile — gentle, as if easing the tension.

  The tree market lived its own life.

  The smell of pine was thick, resinous, cold. The ground underfoot was trampled and damp. Trees stood in rows — tall, short, perfect and strange, in pots, wrapped in burlap, with tags. People moved among them, argued, laughed, took photos.

  And then the owner appeared.

  A biker. Leather jacket, gray beard, tattoos, kind eyes. He came over, saw Bridget — and immediately melted.

  "Now that's a lady," he said, lifting her into his arms. "That's the kind I respect."

  Bridget allowed it. More than that — she settled in comfortably.

  "For you — three trees," the biker said. "In pots. With roots. A gift."

  He handed over neat little booklets with instructions, explained everything carefully and patiently.

  "They'll take," he said. "Just don't rush them."

  The trees were tied to the car carefully — with ropes, crisscrossed, the way people do when they know they're transporting not just cargo, but something alive. The needles swayed slightly in the wind, as if already getting used to the journey.

  We drove on...

  When we arrived, Jo-Jo parked near my house.

  He quickly carried one tree into the yard, positioned it so the roots wouldn't freeze. Everything was efficient, without unnecessary words.

  Then — to Phil's place.

  The door was opened by Alexander.

  He was wearing simple home clothes, sleeves rolled up, and he smelled of soil — damp, fresh. It was immediately clear: he'd been working in the garden.

  "Please, come in," he said with a smile. "Phil's in the bath. We were dealing with the plants."

  He helped Jo-Jo bring Leah inside carefully, without fuss, confidently — like someone who had done this many times before. Then he just as calmly helped carry in their fir-spruce.

  Inside, the house was warm and tidy. The plants stood as if they had chosen their own places. Some were blooming, some stretching toward the light. The decorations were restrained but thoughtful — not for effect, but for comfort.

  "Sit down," Alexander said. "There will be hot tea now," he announced with a smile and gave a playful wink.

  It seemed to me he winked at me.

  He brought everyone wild strawberry tea — fresh, fragrant, as if just picked — and homemade cookies. Everything looked simple and at the same time strangely right.

  Phil came out a little later.

  He looked better. Calmer. His face was lively, his eyes clear. He smiled, was genuinely happy, thanked us for the tree. Everyone talked at once, laughed. Someone praised Bridget's outfit again — and Alexander blushed, but was clearly pleased.

  Phil didn't eat anything. Only drank tea.

  People asked cautiously about his health, but he waved it off.

  "It's all long-term," he said. "But it's under control. Don't worry."

  He spoke confidently — and you wanted to believe him.

  Sometimes it seemed to me that there was someone else deeper in the house. Not footsteps — more like movement, presence. As if the space itself was breathing slightly differently. I caught myself listening, but each time convinced myself: imagination.

  We stayed a little longer, thanked them for the hospitality — for the tea, the cookies, the warmth of the house — and began to get ready to leave.

  We said goodbye without fuss, but with that rare feeling when the day had been right, even if not fully understood.

  Outside, I said goodbye to Leah, Jo-Jo, and Bridget. Leah smiled at me warmly and calmly, Jo-Jo waved, Bridget sat importantly in her knitted coat, as if she knew that today she was the main character.

  They drove away with their tree.

  I stood a little longer by Phil's house, raised my hand and waved until the car disappeared around the corner. The road became quiet again, snow creaked underfoot, the air was clear and cold. It smelled of approaching Christmas.

  I lowered my hand, letting my smile fade — and was about to leave.

  And then I looked up at Phil's house.

  On the upper floor, in the window, there was movement.

  Someone was standing there — literally for a moment. A silhouette. Indistinct, but unmistakable. And immediately — a sharp, almost frightened movement backward.

  He hid.

  I froze.

  I was wearing glasses.

  I saw it clearly.

  It wasn't Alexander.

  And it wasn't Phil.

  Someone else.

  My heart thumped harder than it should have. I kept staring at the window, as if by not looking away I could force it to reveal who had been there. But the glass remained dark and still. No movement. No light.

  The house looked just as neat, warm, alive.

  Just as it had a minute earlier.

  Only now there was a crack in that coziness.

  It hadn't been my imagination.

  Someone had been there.