The cold slowly creeps into the old walls of the small old town. The air is cool and fresh, and a gentle breeze brings the rustling of colorful leaves which glow in warm shades of gold, red, and orange. The narrow alleyways are lined with charming half-timbered houses which are typical of the town. The last autumn flowers are waking up in the neighboring store's window displays, while the small street in front of the stores is covered in a colorful blanket of falling leaves.

Gustave leans forward, feeling his old back complaining about the movement, however he slides his muscular arm between the shelves and turns the dial. It's time to turn up the heating. Groaning, he straightens up and rubs his lower back. His coffee is still sitting on the dimly lit counter. There is a timid knock on the door window. The old man turns around and squints his eyes. He tries to see who is standing outside. Then his face brightens, and he strides quickly to the door, turns the key and pulls it open. “Good morning!” he shouts happily. In front of him stands a young man shivering from the cold. He is tall and thin, Gustave tries to remember if the young man was already so ridiculously tall the day before.

The homeless man is carrying a thick backpack on his back, a rolled-up sleeping bag dangles from a string next to the backpack. The punk is still wearing the same clothes, Gustave notes casually. The little dog, who must have felt like a Rottweiler when they first met, hides behind his owner's big boots.
“Come in, come in!” Gustave steps aside and lets the freezing punk into the warmth. Then the old man closes the door behind him and turns the key. “We've got plenty of time. Come on, I'll show you where you can put things.” He strides forward. The homeless man pauses for a few seconds, as if he has to summon up all his courage to stay here now, then he follows Gustave. "Help, I can always use some. You know, Christine, my daughter has to go to university.” He nods seriously and makes some space in the small kitchen. “Here for your jacket and bag.” The punk silently pulls the heavy backpack off his hanging shoulders and places it in a corner. Quickly, he takes off his old leather jacket and hangs it up. The damp sweater sticks to his upper body. The smell of old sweat, wet dog and a latent old piss scent spreads through the small kitchen. Gustave is well aware of the smell, but doesn't comment further. He can imagine that the young punk must notice it too.
” Well, make yourself a cup of coffee or tea. Warm yourself up, look around. Don't break anything, OK? I'll be right back.” And with that, he leaves the punk alone so that he can catch his breath. 

Sighing, the young man looks around, turns to the tap and washes his hands with warm water. The water runs over his trembling, thin hands. He has almost forgotten how good warm water and soap can feel. In a few seconds, the soapy water turns brown, and his hands change from chalky white to a well-blooded red from the warmth. He dries his hands, turns to the kettle and puts on some tea water. As the water starts to boil, he crouches down and pulls the leash off his dog's head. The soft click lets him know that the water is ready. He pours the hot water into a cup of his choice and throws a bag of mint into the cup.
Slowly, he pulls the surgical mask off his face and blows into the cup.
“Mint, good choice,” comments Gustave from a distance. “It's fresh and healthy. Makes you strong.” He shuffles busily past the kitchen to the counter. He snaps open the cash drawer and fills the individual boxes with change. Gustave is not sure whether it is a skin disease or a bad accident. It could be that the young man was born that way. So far he has only been able to catch two glimpses of his face, but he decides it's none of his business. Obviously the strange homeless man seems to have had enough bad experiences, otherwise he wouldn't be wearing this old thing most of the time. Gustave decides to continue to treat the young man with care and honesty.

Carefully, the punk sips the still far too hot tea. Slowly, almost relieved at the heat, he exhales and wipes his damp jawline with the back of his hand. The right corner of his mouth is pulled up to his cheek, exposing a canine tooth and a molar. Small knots, thin parchment-like skin and small open wounds cover almost the entire right side of his face, across his eye and up to his hairline. He pulls the mask up again, over the place there should be a nose. But there is none, instead there is a gaping black hole. He blinks his uneven eyes tiredly. The right eye is narrower than the left, it almost seems as if he can only blink with great effort.
The homeless man puts his cup down, pushes his hands into the belly pocket of his sweater, and slowly approaches to Gustave. “My... chores...” he whispers hotter, ”Well, first you take out the trash, then you clean the coffee machine. Today is toilet cleaning day. Christine will be happy not to have to do that. Have you brought a lot of time with you?” Gustave asks, without looking up, he taps the change into the cash register. “Got all day, sir,” mumbles the young man.
Gustave turns around “Sir? Please, don't be so polite.” He shakes his hand. “My name is Gustave Daae, but you can call me Gustave.” He smiles encouragingly at the young man. The punk stares at the hand for a few seconds, pulls his hand, which has become cold again, out of his belly pocket and offers it to Gustave.
“I'm Erik. Just... Erik...”