Something inside me snapped.

  "Where?" I asked too quickly.

  "At the beginning of our street," he said, nodding toward the window. "Just standing there, like she's waiting for someone. I didn't recognize her right away—she's dressed completely differently today."

  Freya leaned the Christmas tree against the wall and looked at me too.

  "Do you know her?" she asked.

  I shrugged.

  "No idea," I said. "I'm not expecting anyone."

  The words sounded calm, almost indifferent, but inside something shifted unpleasantly—like a thin chill sliding under the skin for no reason.

  I stood up.

  "I'll go take a look," I added.

  The cats, as if reacting to the word look, woke up instantly. One stood, arched its back, and walked toward the tree with the air of an inspector. The other sat down opposite it and stared without blinking, as if waiting for the tree to break down and confess everything.

  "Be careful, Molly," Jenkins said seriously.

  I nodded.

  Said goodbye and stepped outside.

  The snow was deep and loose; I had to walk slowly, carefully. The air felt dense, heavy, like the moment before a hard freeze. The street stretched out as a clean white ribbon, decorations on the houses glowing softly, as if trying not to draw too much attention.

  Someone really was standing at the beginning of the street.

  From a distance—just a pale shape under the streetlights.

  I squinted.

  A large white fluffy hat.

  A long light-colored coat made of short fur.

  A tall, motionless figure.

  I slowed my pace, trying to understand whether I knew this woman. It didn't seem so. The silhouette stirred no recognition.

  I kept walking closer.

  And then a harsh, unpleasant sound tore through the air.

  First—a sharp crack, as if someone had violently ripped away an invisible film.

  Then—blinding flashes. Sudden, painful to the eyes. Something sparked—wires? the air itself?—I didn't even have time to understand.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I was thrown backward.

  Not struck—thrown, with enormous force. The world flipped, sky and ground trading places, and I dropped into a snowbank with a dull whumph.

  The sensation was like sinking underwater.

  Thick. Viscous. Sound vanished instantly, as if someone had slammed a lid shut. Instead of the street, the wind, the crackling—there was a deep, steady hum, heavy and pressing, like a distant echo inside a vast void.

  I couldn't move.

  The snow no longer felt like snow. It became something abstract—just resistance. I tried to breathe deeper, but the air came in with difficulty, as if through thick fabric.

  And then I heard a voice.

  Not nearby.

  Not from the street.

  It was everywhere.

  Low.

  Slow.

  Heavy—like stone being rolled across the ground.

  There was no emotion in it. No anger, no rage. That was the worst part. It sounded as if it wasn't speaking to me, but through me.

  The words came clearly, with pauses between syllables, as if each one carried weight:

  "Adhuc... paululum."

  With the voice came pressure. Not physical—internal. As if something enormous and invisible was looming over me, examining.

  I tried to scream.

  I couldn't.

  My lips wouldn't obey. My tongue felt heavy. My body no longer belonged to me—it belonged to that hum, that voice, that suspended moment between events.

  And then—suddenly—a violent jolt.

  As if I were shoved back.

  Sound returned all at once: snow, wind, distant lights, my own breathing—ragged, loud. I coughed, inhaled greedily, too fast.

  The hum vanished.

  The voice—gone.

  I was lying in a snowbank.

  Then another voice appeared.

  It didn't come from inside my head.

  This one was human.

  "Hey..." he said. "Let me help you. Did you fall?"

  The ringing in my ears hadn't faded yet. The world swayed, like I really had been underwater. Snow pressed against my shoulders, cold crept under my jacket. I blinked—once, twice—and saw a man leaning over me.

  "Hey... let me help you. You fell? Are you hurt?"

  I blinked again. Snow crunched under his steps. He was alive, warm, wearing a jacket, with a pleasant dark-skinned face. He held out his hand.

  "I just saw you—" he gestured toward the snowbank, "—literally fly over here. Very dramatic, honestly. But I hope without consequences."

  He helped me up, carefully but firmly, brushing snow from my shoulders, sleeves, even my hat. White clumps fell away, pulling me back into my body, into the cold, into reality.

  He smiled—awkwardly, humanly—the kind of smile people give when they don't know what else to say but want things to feel better.

  "I..." I swallowed. "Thank you. I think I'm okay."

  My head was spinning, but the world no longer drifted. The white figure was gone. The beginning of the street was empty.

  "There..." I exhaled. "Did you see a woman? In a white hat?"

  He froze.

  "What woman?"

  "She was standing here," I pointed. "Right here."

  He frowned, looked around, toward the start of the street.

  "No," he said finally. "There was no one here. I was coming from that direction—" he gestured behind him. "The street was almost empty. Just you... in the snow."

  "And... you didn't hear a voice?" I asked.

  He studied me more closely.

  "Did you hit your head? Sometimes after a fall you think you hear things. The brain fills in the gaps."

  I shook my head.

  "Maybe..." I said uncertainly.

  He brushed off the last of the snow, as if closing the incident.

  "By the way," he said. "My name's Charlie."

  "Molly. Nice to meet you."

  "I was heading to my father's," he added. "And suddenly—you in a snowbank. He lives here. His name's Jakob, maybe you know him."

  "Here?" I looked at the houses.

  "Yes." Charlie pointed. "That one."

  And only then did I realize—

  He was the man I always saw wearing a hat.

  I had never seen him without it.

  So his name was Jakob.

  Amanda once mentioned he might be former military. Amanda loves details like that.

  "Thank you for helping me, Charlie," I said.

  "Take care," he replied, and walked toward his father's house.

  I looked once more at the place where the white figure had stood.

  It was empty.

  I looked around.

  The snowbank was at least five meters away from where I'd been standing. I tried to reconstruct it in my head—the body, the flash, the force.

  No.

  That wasn't a fall.

  That wasn't stumbling.

  That was being thrown.

  I had heard the voice.

  It wasn't in my head.

  It hadn't "seemed so."

  It had been outside—slow, heavy, as if space itself had spoken.

  I was truly afraid.

  I turned and ran home.

  Snow flew into my face, my breath broke apart, my heart pounded so loudly it felt like the whole street could hear it. I slammed the door shut behind me, leaned against it, and only then allowed myself to exhale.

  My hands were shaking.

  I examined myself carefully, methodically.

  Skin.

  Arms.

  Legs.

  No burns.

  No signs of electric shock.

  No redness.

  Nothing.

  I started trembling—not from the cold. Inside the house it suddenly felt cold, unnaturally so, as if the warmth had left with me and never returned.

  I sat down on the floor and cried. Quietly. No hysteria. Just because fear had finally found a way out.

  Then I wiped my face sharply.

  I opened my laptop and, before I forgot—before the words faded—I began searching.

  I typed different versions.

  With mistakes.

  By sound.

  Adhuk...

  Ad hoc...

  Adhuc paululum...

  And then—I found it.

  Latin.

  Adhuc paululum.

  I stared at the screen.

  The translation was short.

  "Just a little longer."

  My fingers went cold.

  I closed the laptop, but the words didn't disappear.

  They seemed to stay in the room—between the walls, in the air, in the silence.

  That voice had been counting something down.

  And whatever was supposed to happen—

  it was clearly coming for me.