Dense, grey clouds are gathering in the late afternoon sky, enveloping the city in a dull light. Just after 4 PM, the last customers leave the shop and open their umbrellas. Christine smiles, thanks them, wishes them a nice weekend, and locks the door. She stretches, raises her arms above her head, and yawns.

"Today was kind of slow..." she mutters as she walks through the room. "Dad, I'm upstairs, Raoul will come later to study." Her father looks up from the register. "Hard-working little bee, remember to take a break!"
"Yeeees, Daaaad..." she replies, half walking past him, throwing a glance at Erik, who is focused on fiddling with something in a box. That punk seems to always be on the move. Despite the stillness he radiates, he always has something in his hand, pacing back and forth as if he's constantly searching for something. Or as if he's running away from something.

In a single day, he’s reorganized the entire warehouse, sorted the spare parts, and piled up the trash ready for disposal. Gustave’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the new order. In all the years, he had never managed to keep the warehouse so tidy. But Erik, with his unwavering energy, somehow pulled it off.

"Are you staying?" Christine asks curiously as she slowly climbs the stairs. Erik looks up and shyly nods in her direction.
"Yeah..." he murmurs quietly, "If I'm allowed..." he glances uncertainly at Gustave.
"You have to!" Gustave interrupts with a loud laugh. "I need you to help clean up, Pojke!" Christine gives Erik one last smile before continuing up the stairs. Erik sighs quietly and turns his attention back to the box, which he has now moved aside. One last scrutinizing glance, then he straightens up with a soft grunt. His shoulders hurt. He had hoped the stress and movement would distract him from the pain, but it feels like it's only gotten worse.

The nights on the street are almost unbearable.

Gustave counts the day’s takings and brings the bills to the safe in the back room. When he returns, he finds Erik at the open register.
"Pojke?" he asks calmly.
"I didn't take anything!" Erik blurts out, spinning around in shock.
"What were you trying to do?" Gustave asks, stepping closer. He positions himself next to the young man. If Erik tried to run now, Gustave would probably catch him by the collar.

"The register..." Erik scratches his head. "It's been making a weird noise all day. I wondered if something was stuck..."
Gustave raises an eyebrow. This boy is full of surprises, he thinks to himself, and then asks, "You heard it?"
"Yeah... all the way to the workshop," Erik murmurs, and a wave of uncertainty washes over him.
Has he gone too far?
Has he overstepped again?
What if Gustave sends him back outside now?
"You’re really observant," Gustave says finally. "I’ve lost a penny."

"Should I fix it?" Erik asks uncertainly. He’s often felt like he’s imposing where he's not needed. Gustave thinks for a few seconds, then sorts the change into a coin holder and takes it to the safe as well.
"Alright," Gustave finally says, "You can take the register to the workshop. I’ll finish up here." The old man rubs his beard with his thumb and forefinger—a familiar ritual that helps him make decisions.
Erik nods, bends down to Sasha, lifts the puppy into his arms, and carries her over to the small sofa in the back room. She’s getting heavier by the day. She’s growing and thriving. Shortly after, he carries the register to the back room. The rain outside has turned into an unrelenting drumbeat on the windows. The darkness spreads in front of the small workshop window, and the rain beats in a steady rhythm on the glass.

Erik tightens the last screw on the cash drawer. During the repair, he had found other things—several pennies, a few lint bits, and a paperclip that had gotten caught in the mechanism.
"ERIIIK!" a high-pitched voice calls through the shop. He looks up. Sasha jumps off the well-worn sofa and joyfully runs toward the voice, then dashes toward the stairs. Erik stands up, grabs the register, and carries it into the sales area. Sasha, barking happily as she zooms up the stairs, comes to a stop in front of Christine, who is standing on the top step with a broad smile.
"Do you want to have dinner with us?" Christine asks as she scoops the little puppy into her arms and lovingly presses her close. "Well, little mouse? I bet you're hungry too!"
Erik freezes. No one had ever invited him to dinner before. He had noticed that Gustave often provided him with something to snack on in addition to lunch—some bread or sweet pastries—but no one had ever mentioned dinner.
Now, that Christine directly inviting him, he doesn’t know what to say.
He stares at her, speechless.

"So, what’s it going to be? Are you coming?" she asks impatiently, already turning on her heel.
The small street outside fills again with the sound of hurried footsteps, the slapping of shoes in the water growing louder, and the rain lashes against the windows.
"Sure..." Erik says finally, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. The coming night would be short and cruel no matter what. But at least he wouldn't have to fight off hunger.
He plugs the cash register’s power cord into the socket, walks over to the stairs, and switches off the last light in the shop.

The table is simply set: fresh bread, along with sausage, cheese, and fried eggs. The scent of warm bread mixes with the smell of eggs, and a hint of ham lingers in the air. The rain outside has turned into a steady drumming, softly tapping against the windows. Dusk has long filled the room, and the light from the old lamp casts soft shadows over the wood. It’s quiet, almost too quiet for Erik, who sits down at the table.
Christine smiles at him as she sets a plate in front of him. "Enjoy your meal," she says, then sits down herself. Gustave nods at him and takes a slice of bread.

Erik hesitates before reaching for his own plate. It feels strange to sit here, in a warm room, with food in front of him. It’s a world he only knows from the outside, made up of so many moments he can’t quite imagine. A real dinner, at a real table. It’s been a long time since he’s had anything like this.

Far too long.

And although it’s just a simple meal, for Erik, it’s the world.

He looks at Christine, who follows him with an interested gaze, and then at Gustave, whose eyes study him in a way he can’t quite place.
It’s not the first time Gustave has looked at him like this, but today it feels different. Maybe because he’s daring more than usual.
He knows they both know him, that they’ve seen the scars on his face. But it still feels different today. With a hasty movement, Erik reaches for the mask he’s been wearing the whole time. He slowly slides it off his face until it hangs in his hands. The silence at the table becomes almost tangible as his scars are revealed—the long, hardened wounds stretching from his right cheek to his forehead, the deep grooves that twist the right corner of his mouth, making his face asymmetrical.

It feels like time stands still.

“I’m sorry...” he murmurs, lowering his head. It’s a reflex that never fully disappears—this thought of needing to apologize, of hiding, so as not to take up too much space.
“Erik,” Gustave says calmly, almost gently, “there’s nothing to apologize for. Unless, of course, your table manners resemble those of a three-year-old.”
Christine looks at him with an expression that shows neither pity nor disgust. “There’s no reason to hide,” she says softly.

Erik feels something tighten in his chest.

He looks at his bread, which he now cuts into pieces to keep himself busy. Finally, he pops a small piece of bread with fresh butter into his mouth. It’s strange. He knows it’s just food. But each time, it feels like the first time he’s had something so simple, and it actually means something to him.

The hunger inside him is not just physical.

“What do you actually like to eat? Maybe next time we could cook your favorite meal?” Christine asks, trying to lighten the atmosphere in the silence.

Erik shrugs. It’s a question he hasn’t asked himself often. On the street, he was just glad to have something to eat. It never mattered what. As long as it filled him up.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, absentmindedly wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
The conversation fades, and an awkward silence settles over the table again.

He continues eating, with quick, almost mechanical movements that help push the knot in his chest aside. But his thoughts race, and they always lead him back to his mother.
He never had a real family, but he still misses it. He misses the idea of it. The idea that somewhere, someone is waiting to tell him that he’s enough, that he’s loved just because he exists. And even though he knows that kind of love never came, his heart still longs for it. And now, here he is with them, barely able to endure it.

This warmth.
This kindness.

"Do you know what I’ve been missing since I’ve been in Germany?" Gustave suddenly asks with a mischievous smile, taking another bite of his bread. "Swedish meatballs! A really good meatball... with a big dollop of lingonberry jam."
He looks at Erik and Christine, adding with a playful grin, "But here? Here at least we have the best bread! Hehe, who needs meatballs when you have something so delicious?" He lifts a piece of bread and breaks it in two. The crust cracks loudly, then he pops a piece of the bread into his mouth.
Christine laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, please, Dad! Spare us your ode to the good bread!"
"Alright, alright," Gustave laughs back. "Hmmmm, lingonberry jam, meatballs, potatoes – almost like a hug for the stomach." He looks at Erik and then asks with a wink, "So, Pojke, have you ever tried meatballs?"
Erik looks a bit confused, then shyly glances down at his plate. "Uh, no... but it sounds good."
"No?! That’s on your learning plan!" Gustave exclaims enthusiastically. "Min Älskling! Let’s make meatballs tomorrow evening! We’ll invite you, Pojke!!" he calls across the table.

Christine and Gustave laugh, and it sounds like music in Erik’s ears.
For a moment, he almost forgets the knot still sitting in his chest, the small, unspoken feeling of uncertainty that follows him whenever he moves through this new world.

But here, in this moment, everything feels a little lighter.