The diffuse light filters through the curtains and paints a pattern on the walls of the room. His head feels like it's wrapped in cotton. He blinks and tries to make out the blurred contours around him. He tries to remember.

A brief feeling of dizziness, and then – nothing.

Erik sits up, the blanket slides off his shoulders, and a shiver runs down his damp, sweaty back. He looks around the room. On the nightstand beside him is a glass of water. He reaches for it and empties it in one gulp, still trying to organize his thoughts.

There's a brief knock at the door, making Erik listen up. He watches as the door opens and Christine enters. "You're awake," she says with relief as she steps inside. Erik clears his throat. "What... is... ouch..." he holds his hand to his throat. Slowly, she moves closer and sits down on the edge of his bed. "You just slipped off the chair yesterday," she explains, placing a fresh glass of water on the nightstand and pulling a blister pack of tablets from her pocket. "You really scared us. Dad took you to the hospital. They gave you an IV."

Erik looks at his bony hand, a bandage the only evidence of the night. Christine presses a small white tablet from the blister pack. "You're lucky, there's no pneumonia yet. But the doctor says you need to rest, preferably in a warm bed." She holds out the water and the tablet. "Paracetamol. It helps with fever and pain," she explains, noticing Erik's questioning look. "We were really worried... I was worried..." she whispers, watching him as he swallows the tablet and drinks the water greedily. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his old hoodie.

"Where... is Sasha?" he asks with a hoarse voice.

"In my room, don't worry. I'll bring her to you in a moment. How do you feel?" She leans forward, intending to place her hand on his forehead. He recoils, the remaining water sloshing in the glass as he presses himself against the wall.

"N... Not. Please," he whispers more urgently.

"Don't worry, you can't infect me, I hardly ever get sick," she says, climbing onto the bed and trying again.

"I just want to check if you still have a fever!" she explains.

But Erik hides his disfigured face behind his thin arms.

"Please," he repeats softly. "Please don't..."

Only now does she realize it.

He’s afraid of the touch.

She slowly lowers her hand. In the months before, she had noticed a few times that he avoided physical contact. What was rarely possible with Gustave, Christine couldn't even remember ever truly touching Erik.

"It’s okay..." she whispers gently. "I don't want to hurt you..." She slides off the bed and heads for the door. "I'll be right back."

He blinks uncertainly from behind his arms. As soon as the door closes, he places the glass on the nightstand, slides out of bed, pushes aside the delicate curtains, and opens the window. The icy wind lashes against his face.

And slowly, peace returns.
He stands there for a moment, the cold wind bringing with it a sharp scent of damp leaves and wet stone. He inhales deeply, letting the fresh air fill his tight lungs, feeling the moment as he takes it in.

He closes his eyes to focus, to feel the silence inside, now echoing gently through his body. Memories come in waves, no longer as painful, but still present. An image of him lying on the floor, feeling the cold ground of the workshop. A ringing in his ears, the distorted image of Gustave, whose voice pierced the darkness like an anchor: “Stay calm... Breathe with me.” The smell of disinfectants, the cold metallic taste of fear. Doctors, frantic conversations, the feeling of both strangeness and closeness at once.

He shakes his head.

Behind him, a voice clears its throat. “I heard you’re back on your feet?” Erik turns around and looks into Gustave’s concerned eyes. Behind him stands Christine, holding a thermometer in her hand.

“Sor—"
“No, no apologies here and I’m sorry there!” Gustave snaps at him, slowly approaching. “We were worried, Pojke! I was really worried! I told you, you don’t look good!” His German grows shakier as he becomes louder and angrier. “I thought you were seriously ill!” His shoulders tremble with emotion.

Sasha slips between his legs and barks joyfully in greeting. Erik drops to his knees, picks up his little golden treasure, and stands back up. The ground beneath him still wobbles a bit. Yet, he finally smiles. The first smile he can give Gustave and Christine without having to hide it. It’s crooked, the exposed teeth almost making it look grotesque, but his eyes speak for themselves.

It is the sincerest smile he can offer.

"Thank you," he breathes more heatedly.

A gust of wind howls through the window, the curtains fluttering around Erik like startled pigeons.

Outside, on the street in front of the small shop, Gustave’s voice can be heard cursing and grumbling in Swedish. Phrases like, “Get back to bed!” and “You’re not well!” are carried by the wind down the street.

Until the little window is closed.