A few days passed.

  October was gradually entering its final phase—the time when the air grows denser and the light softer, as if the day is already preparing to give way to evening. Mornings were cool, afternoons dry and clear, and by evening the sky filled with a dull bluish haze in which November could already be felt.

  Phil came by in the afternoon.

  I opened the door and understood at once that he was agitated. Not frightened, not weak—agitated, like someone who had hesitated for a long time about coming and finally decided to.

  "Hi," he said briskly. "May I?"

  "Of course," I replied.

  He came in, took off his shoes, and set two pumpkins by the wall—solid, heavy, neat, with even ribs.

  "These are for you," he said. "I put two more by the entrance. It's Halloween, and you don't have anything decorated at all.

  I don't like eating them, but I love growing them! Look how big they got!"

  "Halloween..." I paused. "I completely forgot."

  "Exactly," he smiled. "And the kids will be out tonight. You'll need candy."

  He sat down as usual, easily, but placed his legs oddly—as if testing different positions.

  "Phil," I said. "Is something wrong?"

  He sighed.

  "Look."

  He rolled up his pant leg.

  His legs were swollen. Not abruptly, not frighteningly—but unmistakably altered. As if fluid had gathered there and the body hadn't yet decided what to do about it.

  "That's not normal," I said at once. "Not normal at all."

  "Oh, come on," he said. "I feel great. It's just... this."

  "No," I shook my head. "First there was the allergy. You were coughing, then itching for days. Now this. That's not a coincidence."

  He shrugged.

  "The allergy's gone. The pills helped."

  "This could be dangerous, Phil. It could be anything. Kidneys. Heart. A reaction to something."

  He looked at me more closely.

  "I'll see a doctor," he said. "I promise. I just wanted to show you first."

  "No," I said. "You're not 'going someday.' You're going in the next few days."

  He nodded.

  "Okay."

  He was quiet for a moment, then added:

  "I've been working with that flower all this time."

  "That one?" I asked.

  "Yes. The pollen is unusual. I've never encountered anything like it. Very soft. I was trying to... understand how it lives."

  "Phil," I said more firmly. "You shouldn't be experimenting with anything right now."

  He smiled.

  "I'm being careful."

  I didn't answer.

  "By the way," he said, standing up. "If kids come by and you don't have sweets, they'll be very upset."

  He glanced at the pumpkins, as if checking that they were still there, said goodbye, and left.

  Frederika still hadn't written.

  Her phone had been off the entire time.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I went to the store.

  The weather was exactly what it should be that day: dry air, the smell of leaves and distant smoke. The store was noisy—lots of children, parents with baskets, piles of candy: bright, shiny, crinkling. I bought sweets, cookies, and custard-filled pastries glazed with chocolate—for myself.

  When I got back, it was getting dark.

  I went into the studio.

  The flask stood calmly, as always. But the black dots inside had become more noticeable. There were more of them. They were no longer just hinted at—they were growing. Slowly, unhurriedly, as if some process was unfolding inside on its own schedule.

  I didn't look for long.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  "Trick or treat!"

  Loud. Cheerful. In chorus.

  I opened the door, and the house filled with voices, laughter, the rustle of bags. Children came in groups, then one by one, then in crowds again. Some wore capes, some had painted faces, some were just in jackets but with very serious expressions.

  I handed out candy generously.

  Then more.

  And more.

  In between, I drank tea.

  Ate pastries.

  Listened as footsteps and voices gathered again outside the door.

  The evening went on as it should.

  Ordinary.

  Festive.

  And at some point it seemed to me that everything really was fine.

  That this day was just a day.

  That the rest could be understood later.

  I closed the door late that night.

  The house grew quiet.

  And the night calmly took its place.

  Morning was dark and cold. A fine, persistent rain fell, as if it had no intention of stopping or intensifying—just being. The house looked sleepy and collected, but inside everything was scattered: thoughts, plans, chores.

  I decided to use one of the pumpkins.

  The kitchen was warm. I cut it open—dense, heavy, with bright orange flesh. The smell turned sweet and rich at once. I sliced the pumpkin thinly, sprinkled it with sugar, kneaded the dough. It came out soft, pliant, sticking slightly to my fingers. I rolled it out slowly, without haste.

  The placintas fried quietly.

  The sugar began to caramelize.

  A warm, calm scent spread through the house—the kind that keeps you inside when it's cold and wet outside.

  I cracked the window open.

  Cold air rushed in, mixed with the pumpkin aroma.

  Rain tapped on the sill.

  November was here—fully.

  After that, I started cleaning.

  It took almost the entire day.

  Floors, surfaces, shelves, things that always end up where they shouldn't. I moved through the house slowly, without irritation but with fatigue. The cleaning wasn't urgent, but it demanded presence—complete presence. I hate that feeling: when a day passes and you can't recall a single clear moment.

  By lunchtime, my back was already aching.

  By mid-afternoon, the fatigue had turned viscous.

  I realized I no longer wanted to deal with this alone.

  I sat at the table, opened my laptop, and found a cleaning agency's website. Everything was dry and simple: a form, a list of services, no faces, no photos. I liked that. I filled out the request, briefly described the house, sent it, and closed the page.

  Almost immediately after, I went to the window.

  A car was parked at Phil's place.

  Not his.

  A woman stepped out in a light coat, carrying a small case.

  A doctor.

  It was already around four.

  She went into the house.

  The door closed.

  I wasn't deliberately watching, but my gaze kept returning to the window. The rain intensified, grew denser. The car stood motionless. Phil's house was quiet—unusually quiet for a place that normally lived its green life, rustling and dripping.

  About forty minutes later, the door opened.

  The doctor came out.

  Got into the car.

  Drove away.

  I waited a bit longer.

  Then I wrote to Phil.

  How are you?

  How are your legs?

  What did the doctor say?

  The reply didn't come at once.

  She said it's edema.

  Looks like an allergic reaction or a hormonal imbalance.

  She ordered tests and a diet.

  Said not to panic.

  I reread the message.

  You really need to get the tests done, I wrote.

  This could be serious.

  I know, he replied. I'll go.

  Overall, she said I look good.

  I looked at the rain.

  At the wet street.

  At the house across the way.

  If anything—I'm nearby, I wrote.

  The reply came almost immediately.

  Thanks. I know.

  The next day was just as gray.

  Light struggled through, as if the day wasn't sure it should begin. I stayed in bed for a long time, listening to the rain roll over the roof, the glass, the ground. Then I got up and went to the kitchen. Made coffee with milk. Drank it, looking out the window. No sign of Phil's car, no movement—the street looked washed and empty.

  Later, the agency called.

  The voice was businesslike and calm. They asked in detail: the size of the house, how many rooms, whether there was a garden. I said there was—a small one, nothing special. Not comparable to Phil's, but still a garden. They explained they had a general worker who could handle both the house and the yard.

  We discussed the price, the date, and the first trial visit. He was supposed to come the following week.

  The call was short, but it exhausted me more than I'd expected. I don't like talking to strangers. Never have. But I hate cleaning even more, and I had to accept that. I really hoped this person would be quiet, careful, and wouldn't require constant presence or explanations. Just do the job and leave.

  After the call, I went back to the window.

  Phil's car still wasn't there.

  A little later, I received a notification about a painting sale.

  The buyer was from Hong Kong.

  I read the message several times. It was an old work—I'd painted it back at my parents' house. There had been a lot of snow then, a lot of silence, and a feeling that the road always leads somewhere, even when it seems you're standing still.

  I went to the studio.

  The paintings were still there as I'd brought them after the move—along the wall, on shelves, one after another. I didn't go through them all; I just found the right one. It was set a little deeper, leaning against the others. A winter scene. A road. A forest. A house with warm light in the windows.

  I put it on the easel and looked at it from a distance.

  For some reason, I thought of my parents. Their stories about trips, about cities where everything is different—light, smells, movement. They described Hong Kong as a place where it's impossible to tire of life, because it never stops there, not for a minute.

  I began packing the painting—carefully, slowly, as always. Cardboard, protective film, corner guards.

  That same day, I went to the post office.

  The rain was still drizzling, but finer now, as if it were tired. I called a taxi, carefully placed the box with the painting in the trunk, checked that nothing had shifted, and we drove off. The post office was warm and stuffy. I filled out the forms, checked the address again—Hong Kong—and handed the box to the clerk at the counter. At that moment, the painting stopped being mine. It always felt the same: not sadness, not joy, but a light emptiness, like after a long conversation.

  When I got back, a fire truck was parked on our street.

  Violet Street is small and dead-end, more like a lane than a real street. The truck took up almost all the space; the lights were no longer flashing. There was no fire. Firefighters were rolling up hoses, calmly, without haste, as if everything had ended long ago.

  By the curb stood the gossiping neighbor. Red-haired, dry, with a long sharp nose and a habit of looking at things as if any trifle were obliged to become a story. Her small dog fussed beside her—nervous, lanky, uncannily similar to its owner in both face and manner.

  "A chicken coop caught fire," she said without greeting me. "At the very end. Though there haven't been chickens there for a hundred years. They used it as a shed."

  There was disappointment in her voice—as if the event hadn't lived up to the proper scale.

  "Bad?" I asked.

  "Not really," she waved it off. "Mostly smoke. They put it out quickly."

  I looked where she pointed. The house stood calmly, without signs of panic.

  I lingered a moment longer, looking toward the end of the street. The rain was picking up again, fine and biting, as if starting over. The neighbor had already lost interest in me and turned to the firefighters; the dog tugged at the leash, eager to go home.

  I nodded goodbye and went to my house.

  The street became what it had always been—quiet, narrow, closed in on itself. The fire truck drove away, and the space seemed to exhale. No trace of the incident, only wet asphalt and the smell of damp wood.

  I went inside, closed the door, took off my jacket.

  It was warm in the house.

  I went to the window—still no sign of Phil's car. The house across the way stood dark, without movement.

  I thought the day had held too much. As if it had tried to contain more than it should, and now was spreading at the edges.

  I had dinner, turned on the table lamp in the living room, sat in the armchair, and opened a book. The rain evened out again, becoming steady, almost lulling.

  November wasn't in a hurry.

  It was already here.

  And it seemed it planned to stay.