The way back felt completely different.

  It was as if the tension that had held us since morning had suddenly loosened—not abruptly, but gently, allowing us to breathe out. The car moved easily; the city no longer pressed in or kept us on edge. Everything looked familiar again, safe.

  Bridget was asleep.

  Deeply, sweetly, with that unmistakable dog snore you can't confuse with anything else. She was stretched out across the seat, her paws twitching now and then, as if she were dreaming of something very good. Her calm was contagious.

  Phil opened his wallet again.

  "Everything's here," he said, smiling. "Absolutely everything."

  He wasn't checking because he doubted it anymore, but because he still couldn't quite believe it.

  The money.

  The cards.

  The documents.

  Even the plumber's note—the very one with the part name, neatly folded, just as before.

  "I'd already started preparing for hell," he said. "Paperwork, forms, replacements... I hate all of that."

  He laughed—lightly, genuinely.

  "And instead... they just returned it."

  "And didn't touch a thing," Jo-Jo said. "Amazing."

  "As if they never meant to," Phil added.

  He looked happy. Not wired, not on edge—truly happy. Like someone whose big, unpleasant problem had suddenly been cancelled.

  Then he carefully unfolded the handkerchief.

  The flower was fresh.

  Cut very recently—not yesterday, not the day before. The petals were firm, saturated with color. The violet-blue hue was deep, alive, as if it held more shades than you could see at once. It seemed to glow—quietly, from within.

  Phil stared at it, transfixed.

  "I've never seen anything like this," he said. "Not even close. I don't know what kind of plant this is."

  We were silent for a few seconds.

  I was thinking...

  "It was beautiful there," I said. "Very beautiful. And empty. Not a single person. And the flower had been cut very recently. As if right before we arrived."

  Phil shrugged.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "I don't understand any of it," he said, "but I'm so glad everything turned up. Honestly. I was already bracing for the worst."

  "I'm glad too," I said. And it was true.

  It felt lighter.

  As if something heavy could finally be set down and not carried any further—even if it still wasn't fully understood.

  The car turned onto Violet Street.

  It greeted us as usual—calm, almost gentle. Houses, fences, familiar windows. Everything slipped back into place. It felt like returning not just home, but to normality.

  Phil got out first and almost ran toward his house—wallet, flower, and that joy that clearly wouldn't fit inside him.

  "I'll put the kettle on!" he called. "Come in!"

  Jo-Jo grimaced.

  "I was only stopping by for a minute... I've got things to do."

  Bridget yawned, lifted her head, and looked at him as if "things to do" were a very weak argument.

  "All right," he gave in. "Just for a bit. Tea."

  We followed Phil.

  And at that moment, it really did seem to me

  that everything was fine.

  Whatever it had been—

  for today, it was over.

  Phil's place was warm and humid.

  We came in, and he immediately went ahead. He held the flower carefully with both hands, as if afraid it might suffer from too much movement—or even air.

  "I'll be right back," he said. "I need to put it away. It can't stay here."

  And he disappeared among the plants.

  Jo-Jo and I stayed in the kitchen. Bridget settled by the radiator, curled into a ball, and almost instantly fell asleep. A minute later she was softly snoring, fully trusting the place and the people.

  I put the kettle on.

  Phil had an old whistling kettle—loud, confident, the kind you can't fail to hear. It stood on the stove, scratched, clearly loved and long-used.

  "You've got a whole greenhouse in here," Jo-Jo called out, looking around. "Even more than that."

  I nodded.

  The house was literally filled with plants. They were everywhere—on the windowsills, on the floor, on shelves, on special stands. Everything was growing, stretching, intertwining. Somewhere water was trickling; somewhere a mister was working, and a light haze hung in the air. It felt as if the house was breathing along with them.

  "How does he even manage all of this?" I asked.

  "He's been like this since childhood," Jo-Jo replied. "A fanatic. Even as a kid he dragged home anything that could be planted. His parents gave up on stopping him back then."

  He smirked.

  "He treats plants like people. Talks to them. Seriously. He can stand there explaining that today there'll be a repotting and that 'you'll have to be patient.'"

  "And they seem to listen to him," I said.

  "Yeah," Jo-Jo nodded. "His plants always look good. As if they understand what he wants from them."

  The kettle let out a loud whistle.

  I poured the water and set out the cups. We sat down at the table.

  "I help him with sales," Jo-Jo continued. "He's not great online. I find clients, post listings, answer messages. Lately it's been going really well."

  "Really?" I asked.

  "Yeah," he said. "Especially recently. New varieties, new blends. That fertilizer of his... seems to work."

  Phil came back later.

  Without the flower.

  He looked calmer, more collected. It was clear he'd put it where he thought it belonged, and now he could finally relax.

  "Tea?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said. "Thanks."

  He sat down with us.

  We talked a bit more about the house, the plants, about how they demand attention, time, patience. Phil listened, smiled, occasionally added something—calmly, without excitement, like someone for whom all of this was simply natural.

  And only then did the conversation drift back to the other thing.

  "It's still strange," I said. "What happened."

  Phil looked at his cup.

  "Yeah."

  "It feels," I went on, "like we weren't quite ourselves."

  "I agree," he said.

  "And if that man..." I hesitated. "If he really was normal, if he didn't do anything bad..."

  "Then the question isn't about him," Jo-Jo said.

  I nodded.

  "Exactly."

  We fell silent again.

  I thought about that day.

  "The only person who was with us before all this," I said at last, "was the plumber."

  They both looked at me.

  "He was at my place," I continued. "Fixing the pipes. We drank the water. Then... everything else."

  Phil frowned.

  "Did you know him before?"

  "No," I said. "I found the ad in the newspaper. The one they keep stuffing into our mailboxes."

  "So, random," Jo-Jo said.

  "Completely," I replied.

  I remembered something else and looked at Phil.

  "And the allergy?" I asked. "Is it still bothering you?"

  He shrugged.

  "No. The pills helped. It's not itching anymore. I feel fine."

  "So it passed," I said.

  "Looks like it," he answered calmly.

  We finished our tea. The conversation gradually faded—not abruptly, but naturally, as if everything important had already been said. Jo-Jo stood up first, stretched, called Bridget. The dog woke, yawned, and became serious again.

  We said our goodbyes.

  Phil stayed at his place.

  Jo-Jo went to the car.

  I crossed the street home.

  The studio was quiet.

  I turned on the overhead light and took out the paints. The flask stood where it always had. I caught myself barely paying attention to it. It no longer felt like an intrusion. It was simply there—like something for which words had not yet been invented.

  I worked for a long time.

  The paint went on smoothly, without resistance. My thoughts flowed evenly, without jumps. Only now and then, between brushstrokes, the same question returned.

  Why?

  Why would that plumber—ordinary-looking, even pleasant—have added something to the water?