The sharp scent of lemon cleaner mingled with the warm aroma of freshly baked bread, and the contrast struck me so forcefully that I froze on the threshold, certain for a suspended second that exhaustion had led me to the wrong apartment.
My first thought was that I’d miscounted the floors after yet another grueling day at work. My second was that someone had broken into my home and turned my life upside down with unsettling courtesy. Both hypotheses crumbled when I spotted Oliver’s crooked pencil drawing, still taped to the refrigerator next to my chipped ceramic mug.
The apartment was undeniably mine, and yet strangely transformed. The blankets, usually in disarray, were neatly folded. The candy wrappers were gone. The sink, normally overflowing with traces of survival, gleamed clean and empty.
Then I heard a noise in the kitchen.
A tall man slowly turned away from the stove, leaning on a medical brace on his knee. For a second, my mind refused to connect this stranger with the peaceful domestic scene unfolding before my eyes.
He was wearing one of my oversized grey t-shirts, the sleeves of which hung oddly below his elbows. A cake tin sat on the counter, and next to it, a plate gave off the aroma of melted cheese and herbs.
He immediately raised his hands, palms open.
“I didn’t go into your room,” he said quickly, calm but vigilant. “I only cleaned the rooms on the ground floor. I thought it was the least I could do to earn your trust.”
My pulse was pounding in my ears.
“How did you manage to handle all of that?”
He gestured towards the cook. “I used to cook a lot, before things… changed.”
On the table were two golden croque-monsieur sandwiches and a bowl of soup sprinkled with parsley and thyme. Fatigue still gnawed at my bones, but a hint of suspicion crept into my mind.
“You searched my cupboards without asking me.”
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