Every morning, Erik stands in front of the store on time and knocks. Every afternoon he says goodbye and disappears into the cold. He doesn't say where he's going. No one asks, either. What remains is the smell of wet dog and piss.

Erik knocks on the small window on this morning too, and Gustave lets him in. “Good morning, Pojke,” he calls out to the punk. He just nods tiredly in response, locks the door behind him, and slips his backpack and leather jacket off his thin body.
Erik quickly got used to the older man's rhythm. Making coffee and tea, sweeping, taking out the garbage, cleaning the coffee machine, washing up, cleaning the toilet and stocking the shelves became Erik's main tasks, while Gustave could happily take care of the bookkeeping and the money.
Christine objected at first. Not out of fear that the punk might steal something, after their first interaction, she was pretty sure that Erik wasn't one of those. He's not a thief. At least not out of greed. Rather, a quiet worry crept into her mind. A worry that she couldn't yet identify. In the end, she simply gave in and talked herself into the fact that she could use the time to study.

Erik hurries conscientiously through the store, carrying the bin bag in one hand and a cup of hot coffee for Gustave in the other. As he passes, he puts the cup down next to Gustave and hurries to the door that leads into the small side alley. Always at his side, on silent paws, his loyal Sasha.
A satisfied slurp is heard, and Erik pauses briefly to listen. “Ahhh, good coffee, well done Pojke!” praises Gustave.
The young man begins to smile as he steps out of the door.
No one can see his smile because he doesn't want to be seen.
Because he doesn't want to see how others react when they see this abnormally distorted smile. This disgusting twisting of deformed misshapen skin.
Back then, on that cold morning when Gustave ripped him from his sleep, he had felt more defenceless than he had in a long time. Gustave could see everything. That disgusting grimace that accompanied him like a punishment. But what Erik saw was neither terrifying nor disgusting.
On the contrary.
Gustave looked more confused and worried. Like someone who looks at his best friend and wants to comfort him.
Sympathetic.
Perhaps that was the reason why Erik turned up at the store door every morning. He could have simply run away after the accident with the violins. But the old man surprised him here too.
Meanwhile, Erik opened the waste container and stuffed the bin bag inside.
Gustave wasn't upset that two violins had been destroyed and one had to be repaired. He just stood there and laughed. Then he helped the confused punk to his feet, apologized for his own rude actions, and led him into the back room.

Erik briefly pulls the mask off his face to get some air. He takes a deep breath of the chilly street air. A window opens above him and Christine's brown-red curly head peers out. “Urgh, cold,” she grumbles, looks down at Erik and raises her hand in greeting. The punk lets go of the surgical mask and the rubber bands tighten. He raises his hand too. “Coffee is- ah,” and the window closes again in no time at all. He looks down at his loyal dog, then shrugs and walks around the store. He pauses for a moment in front of the door, wipes his hands on his trousers, taps the caps of his combat boots on the cobblestones to get some dirt out of the soles. Then he looks at his pale reflection in the small window of the store door and combs his greasy hair with his fingertips. The black, ragged hair sticks out to the side. Again and again he tries to tame the hair that has been tousled by sleep. Finally, he gives up and knocks.
Gustave opens the door, lets the young man in, and relocks the door behind him. “It's cold outside,” he comments, pointing to Erik's red fingertips. “I'm fine,” he replies and hides his hands in his belly pocket again. Christine trots down the stairs, shuffles around the bend and disappears into the store kitchen, followed by a dark aura of tiredness.

“Impressive,” Gustave whispers, ”you've got a good grip on her.”
“Excuse me?”
“At this hour, Christine is not in a good mood. She usually sweeps through the store like a furious Freyja personified. But as soon as you get here, bang. Just another boiling Freyja." Gustave nods with amusement and returns to his accounting.
Meanwhile, Erik leaves his spot and makes his way uncomfortably to the small kitchen. His mint tea is waiting for him. The only treat he can accept from Gustave. The only warm thing during the day is a cup of tea. He is here to pay off his debts, not to accumulate new ones. “Ehm...” he mumbles quietly, '“How do you do that?” she asks, turning around, “What... do I... do how?" He stares at her, irritated. “Coffee, it's never tasted as good as it does now. How do you do that?” She looks at him and then away again. Not because she finds him repulsive. But the smell is slowly spreading through the kitchen, and she doesn't know how her father can stand it. Erik has been wearing the same clothes for weeks. His clothes are covered in dirt, hanging down on him damp and at the same time strangely stiff.
“Salt,” he replies and takes a step back, seeing her discomfort but unable to interpret it properly.

It's better to take a step back.

"I've heard that a pinch of salt added to freshly ground coffee helps to smooth out the taste... and takes away... the bitterness.” His voice drops in volume.

He rubs his hands uneasily in his belly pocket. As if she really cares, he thinks to himself, and his gaze slowly drifts to the floor.

Christine stares at her cup, then reaches for Erik's tea, “And you only drink tea?” and hands him the cup. The huge young man leans forward, takes the cup and nods, his uneven eyes resting on the reflective surface of the tea. “I like it more...” he says. “Well then, will you let me through? I have to leave soon.” He immediately moves to the side and gently pushes his sleeping puppy out of the way with his combat boot. Not that another accident will happen. Erik runs his hand under the surgical mask and pulls it slightly away from him. This allows him to blow on the tea, but his face is not completely exposed immediately - he would like to spare Christine the embarrassment look. Halfway up the stairs, Christine stops, leans over the wooden railing and calls out, “You can shower your dog here if you want.”

Gustave looks up from his papers and watches as a startled Erik pours tea over his hands. “Shit.” He disappears into the kitchen. Then he comes out, holding a kitchen towel in his hand and exclaims “Thank you... oh...”, but Christine has already disappeared. His yellow, uneven eyes glancing at Gustave. He only grins broadly. “And if you wash the dog, you can also take a shower and wash things.”