Phil opened the door almost immediately.

  He was wearing his work jacket, his hands smeared with soil, carrying that familiar scent of damp leaves that always accompanied him like background noise. Behind him, the house was visible—green, dense, alive, as if the plants were slowly but steadily reclaiming the space.

  "Hi," he said. "Did something happen?"

  I nodded.

  "Yes. And I need your help."

  He didn't ask any questions. Just grabbed his jacket, slipped on his boots, and followed me outside. On the porch he paused for a second, absently scratched his stomach as if brushing off a thought, then kept going.

  We walked in silence. The street was empty; the sun had dropped lower, and the shadows from the houses stretched long, like unfinished sentences. The crate was waiting exactly where I had left it. It looked even larger than before—as if, in the meantime, it had fully decided it wasn't going anywhere.

  Phil stopped in front of it.

  Slowly walked around it.

  "That's... impressive," he said at last.

  "I didn't order it," I said. "And I don't know what's inside."

  He crouched down, ran his hand over the boards, over the recessed bolts.

  "Solidly made. This isn't store delivery."

  "I know."

  He straightened up, scratched his stomach again—briefly, as if not attaching any importance to it—and looked at me.

  "So. You want to open it?"

  "I want to bring it into the house. But I can't do it alone."

  Phil nodded.

  "Then we open it first. See what we're dealing with."

  He had tools in his car. He worked calmly, without fuss, as if this weren't a mystery but simply a task that needed to be solved step by step. The bolts resisted, but gave way. The boards came off one by one.

  When the lid finally loosened, we both froze.

  Inside was a metal frame.

  On wheels.

  Heavy, stable, firmly fixed in place.

  And at the center—a vessel.

  Round, almost perfectly shaped, made of thick, unusually clear glass. Inside was a liquid of warm amber color—not water, not oil, but something viscous, fermented, like an infusion that had been living its own life for far too long.

  And inside it—that.

  It looked like a giant kombucha culture.

  Or a jellyfish without tentacles.

  Or something in between.

  The semi-transparent body moved slowly, changing shape, spreading out and gathering itself again. The edges were uneven, layered—dense in some places, nearly dissolving in others. It neither floated nor sank; it simply existed within the medium, as if the medium were an extension of it.

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  No sudden movements.

  Only a slow, continuous act of being.

  Phil straightened.

  "This is organic," he said quietly. "Not a mechanism. And not an animal in the usual sense."

  He ran his palm over his stomach again, this time lingering a little longer, frowned—then brushed the gesture aside.

  "It looks like kombucha," I said. "Only... wrong."

  He nodded.

  "Yes. As if the fungus decided not to live on the surface, but entirely within the medium. And grew too large."

  The vessel didn't glow and made no sound. The frame was designed for long-term immobility; the wheels—for rare, careful movement.

  "Is it alive?" Phil asked.

  "I don't know," I said. "But it's definitely not dead."

  We stood there in silence.

  "There are locking braces here," he said after a pause. "If we remove them, the structure will be mobile. The wheels are good."

  "It needs to be inside," I said. "I can't leave this outside."

  Phil nodded.

  "Then carefully."

  We worked together. Removed the braces, checked the balance. The frame yielded gently; the wheels touched the ground. The vessel didn't sway—as if it had been part of this structure from the very beginning.

  "Heavy," Phil said.

  "Very," I replied.

  We rolled it toward the house slowly, almost cautiously. It wouldn't fit through the front door. But it did fit through the old wide door of the workshop at the back—the one I hardly ever used. This time, it turned out to be exactly what was needed.

  Inside it was cool. The familiar smell of paint, wood, and dust—steady, neutral. Daylight from the high windows fell directly onto the glass, and in that light the vessel stopped seeming mysterious and became simply strange.

  "It'll be better here," Phil said. "Stable temperature. And you're always close."

  I nodded.

  We stood there a little longer, watching the slow movement inside the glass.

  Nothing happened.

  Phil scratched his stomach again before we had even properly begun talking.

  Not sharply, not demonstratively—just the way you scratch a place that's been bothering you for days. Then again. And again, as if only now realizing he'd been doing it constantly.

  "It itches," he said finally. "For several days now. Strange. No rash, nothing—but it itches."

  "No rash at all?" I asked.

  "No," he said. "I checked."

  We were standing in the workshop. The vessel was already inside, on its heavy stand. Light from the windows lay across the glass, and the liquid inside looked thick, warm, almost alive. Whatever was within it moved slowly—not actively, but not still.

  Phil kept casting brief glances at it, as if he didn't want to look too long.

  "Phil," I said. "We need to talk. About that day."

  He froze.

  Then nodded.

  "Okay."

  I started from the beginning.

  The bazaar.

  The tent.

  How everything at first seemed ordinary—even boring. Then I told him about the room behind it. About how it had first looked empty. About the furniture. About the feeling that nothing was happening.

  And then—about the beings.

  I spoke calmly, without pressure, without trying to beautify the words. I just told it the way I remembered. About the larva. About the woman. About those who tended the wounds. About the plants entwining the entire space. About how at first I saw nothing—and then the space seemed to manifest.

  Phil listened attentively.

  Very attentively.

  Sometimes he frowned.

  Sometimes he scratched his stomach.

  Sometimes he shifted his gaze from me to the vessel—and back again.

  "I don't remember that," he said at last. "None of it. For me everything was... different."

  "How?"

  "As if we just went into a building. A normal building. A man. A conversation. Everything seemed logical. Like he wanted to help. Like he liked me."

  "Liked you?"

  He shrugged.

  "Yes. As if... I fit. You know?"

  "And then we ran away, and on the way you were muttering that they wanted to cheat us."

  I stared at Phil in surprise.

  "I think they were gypsies," he said suddenly. "They hang around markets and train stations. Hypnotists. Work fast. Gain trust. Take wallets. Money. You yourself said—that's exactly where they operate."

  "But I saw something else," I said. "I didn't see people."

  He looked at me with curiosity.

  Not mockery. Not irritation.

  "You really think it was real?"

  "Yes," I said. "I do."

  He was silent for a moment.

  "Then we need to go back," he said. "And check."

  "You're serious?"

  "Absolutely. If it was hypnosis—we'll understand that. And if not..." He didn't finish.

  "We need someone else," I said. "Just in case."

  Phil nodded.

  "Jo-Jo."

  "Who?"

  "A friend. We've known each other since childhood. He helps me with plants, with the internet, with sales. He doesn't meddle, but if something happens—he won't panic."

  "Will he agree?"

  "I think so. I'll ask. He'll wait outside for five minutes. If we don't come out—he calls the police."

  I exhaled.

  That sounded... reasonable. As reasonable as anything could, under the circumstances.

  I remembered something else and went into the house. Returned with a neatly folded stack of clothes.

  "These are yours," I said. "I... took them off you then. Washed them. And forgot to give them back."

  He took them, looked at them.

  "Thank you."

  "You don't remember anything?" I asked quietly. "Not the words. Not how you spoke."

  He shook his head.

  "Only fragments. That we were looking for a part. That someone tried to cheat me. That we ran away. Everything else is like it was erased."

  He scratched his stomach again.

  This time longer.

  "And the wallet," he added. "I'm sure it was stolen there. The money—fine. But the documents... I'll have to go to the police."

  "Let's go back there first," I said. "Just look."

  "Tomorrow," Phil said. "We'll go tomorrow."

  I nodded.

  I thanked Phil for the help.

  He nodded as if it were nothing, and went back home—to his plants, to his house, where everything kept growing and living by its own rules.

  It was already late.

  I left the workshop, closed the door, and paused for a second in the hallway, listening to the house. Everything was calm. Too calm to ask questions.

  I grabbed a quick bite—without taste, more out of habit than hunger. The day finally caught up with me in exhaustion.

  I went to bed almost immediately.

  Sleep came quickly.