The nights are growing colder, and the sharp autumn winds cut through the streets. The little clouds that form with every breath at his surgical mask almost immediately vanish as the wind carries them away. These are the last autumn storms, and winter is drawing nearer as Erik skulks through the deserted alleyways, his footsteps muffled by the cold. The few familiar places where he had curled up in the past nights are all taken. The benches in the park, which used to offer him and his dog a place in the darkness, are now occupied by other homeless people.

He has to settle for a bench at the edge of a busy park, trying to curl up and get a little sleep. But it will not be a restful night. Drunk people stirred up some homeless. In the end, Erik stays sitting, hoping to stay awake.

Everything hurts. The backpack presses down on his shoulders, his feet are bloodied from the long walks. The pain in his neck and back burns like a blazing fire every time the cold seeps into his limbs. It feels as if his body is the only part of him that still exists – and even it is fighting against him. But today, the pain is worse than ever.

Winter is making itself felt in its own grim way.

Despite it all, Erik keeps his promise. He knocks on the door of Paganino, Gustave and Christine’s shop. She opens it immediately, and a tired smile flickers across her lips as she sees him. "It’s Saturday," she says, her voice calm, as if she were expecting something or someone else. Perhaps the delivery man, or her father, coming from the bank.

Erik looks at her in surprise as she turns and slowly shuffles through the shop. "I didn’t know you were working Saturdays now," she calls from behind the counter as Erik, closing the door behind him, steps into the shop. A sharp pain runs through his back as he shuts the door, and he quickly rubs his neck to ease the discomfort.

"I... I forgot," he murmurs, heading into the small, warm kitchen with his dog. Christine watches him, her eyes following him with an attentive gaze, and for a moment, the room is still, only the soft hiss of the boiling water and the hum of the coffee machine breaking the silence. She can’t quite grasp what it is, but there is something about him that draws her in again and again – a kind of loss he carries within him, something deeper than what the eyes can show.

Something she knows all too well.

"Are you staying anyway?" Christine asks curiously, looking up from the register.

"If that's okay..." Erik says, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

"Of course, no problem!" Christine returns her attention to the register, and Erik unconsciously exhales as he turns to his tasks. It's not much, but for the next few hours, he can warm up here and at least escape the miserable cold for a while. His thoughts drift, a tiny spark of hope flickers: Maybe today he'll find time to play the violin? 

He loses himself in the routine of the shop. Christine keeps watching him out of the corner of her eye, noticing how he rubs his neck, how he keeps sharply inhaling. She has a hard time not asking, but she waits. Waiting for the right moment.

The minutes stretch on, and finally, she can’t remain silent any longer.

"Why do you live on the street?" she suddenly asks, her voice calm but insistent. The question hangs in the air like a shadow, and Erik pauses when he hears the words. For a second, it seems as if he misheard. He looks up from the gut strings in his hands.

"Sorry?" he asks, his mismatched eyes widening slightly.

"Why do you live on the street?" she repeats, and Erik realizes she means it seriously. He wasn’t prepared for this question. Until now, he and Christine hadn’t interacted much, and he had always been careful not to get too close to her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, but her open, clear eyes that looked into him unsettled him.

He clears his throat and walks to the counter, trying to find the right words. "It just happened," he finally says in a flat voice. "It... was a while ago. But it..." He places the last gut strings in a box and comes back to her. "I didn’t have any other choice."

"Why?" she asks again, her curiosity more than obvious. He hesitates. He doesn’t want to tell her everything. There are things he can never say, things so deeply ingrained in him that he doesn’t even know how to put them into words anymore. Thoughtfully, Erik reaches for his cup of tea and traces his thumb over the glazed porcelain. Then he takes a deep breath, as if he needs to gather himself again, and pushes the mask slightly away from his face.

"My..." he begins, but the words almost get stuck in his throat. He clears his throat, and for a moment, her gaze hits him like a blow. She looks at him with such kindness and waits patiently. "My mother died five years ago. My uncle didn’t want me, because..." He waves his hand in front of his disfigured face. "...And I didn’t want to go to a orphanage. So, I ran away. No one came looking for me. That’s it."

He raises the cup to his lips, takes a quick sip, then wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, pulling the mask back over his scarred ridge of the nose

It feels like he can never get enough air.

"What happened to your back?" Christine asks after a pause, her voice still calm, but her eyes reveal a deep empathy he can’t fully grasp. She had sensed something was wrong with his face, but what she saw made her heart skip a beat.

"Discipline," he murmurs flatly. "She was very strict..."

With those words, he turns and disappears into the kitchen. It feels strange to be so calm, as if in the moments when he spoke, he hadn’t really felt anything at all. There is no anger, no pain, no frustration. Just an empty silence that surrounds him.

Why I am so calm?
Shouldn’t I be angry?
Shouldn’t I be crying?
Why does it feel like I've been dead much longer than been alive?

He sets the cup down, his hands trembling slightly. The moment has passed, and with it, the questions that had surprised him.
Then the cash register rings, and footsteps approach. “My mother also passed away,” Christine says quietly, and Erik looks up. “It was longer ago than for you. But... you have my sympathy.”
She smiles weakly, but her eyes hide a pain that goes deeper than words could ever express. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, it seems as though she’s connected to him in this silence.
He wants to say something, but then there's a creak in the background. Gustave stands at the top of the wooden stairs, a crooked grin on his face, his hand on the railing. “I didn’t want to listen…” he murmurs, grinning.
“Papa!” Christine exclaims indignantly, yet with a strange warmth. “But you still listened!” she says, rolling her eyes.
“What can I do? I can’t just turn off my ears!” Gustave grins, and between their banter, a soft chuckle dances. Christine turns around. Erik stands there, slightly leaning forward, one hand on his mask covering his mouth, and the other pressing against his stomach. The silence breaks, and finally, he laughs – a brief, hesitant but genuine laugh that surprises not just Erik.

“Well then, enough time wasted!” Gustave calls, clapping his hands and chasing away the silence for good. “Pojke, to the workshop, there are violins waiting for you! Christine, Älskling, can you redecorate the window?”
Erik heads for the back room. Christine stands still for a moment, watching him. She wonders what kind of person he really is, what lies behind that silence.
“I know, the questions are burning in you,” murmurs Gustave as he turns to her. “I thought he was just a typical runaway. A stubborn teenager who probably caught scabies or something...” he whispers.
“Yes, life often turns out differently,” Gustave replies thoughtfully. “What’s your gut feeling?”
“He’s really nice. He doesn’t deserve this…” she murmurs softly, letting her gaze drop. “I feel sick...”
“Must be hunger,” Gustave says calmly, glancing at the clock. “I’ll get us some croissants. It’s going to be a long day.” Then he presses a kiss to his daughter’s forehead and turns away.