Simon woke up before dawn, as usual. House was silent, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the creaking of old wood somewhere in the hallway. He went downstairs, his bare feet feeling the familiar rhythm of the stairs.

The kitchen was half-dark. Simon turned on the lamp above the sink, put on the kettle and took out the coffee. Morning ritual was almost sacred to him: brew, sit, look out the window, catch a sense of peace that lasted only a few minutes before the world woke up.

But this time there was something different in the air. The faint scent of perfume - not his and not his sons'. He stopped at the front door: new sneakers. Women's.

He said nothing out loud, just hummed softly and returned to the kitchen. His son, Henry, was old enough not to ask his permission to invite anyone into the house.

He was sitting at the table when he heard footsteps. His son appeared, disheveled, still in his pajamas. He was a little surprised to see his father at the table.

"Morning," he muttered and began rummaging through refrigerator.

Simon watched him closely. There was something unnaturally cautious about the boy's movements, as if he were trying to look "normal." Simon tilted his head without saying a word, which made his son smile nervously.

"Listen, Dad," he began, closing the refrigerator "There's something...well, I wanted to introduce you to someone."

At that moment, you appeared in the doorway.