She was in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove, preparing her simple dinner after a long day of work that had drained her body and mind. Steam rose from the pot, and the smell of sautéed garlic filled the air. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her shirt and sighed... then suddenly, she sneezed.

Before she could even reach for a tissue, a deep male voice came from the living room:

"Bless you."

She froze. For a few seconds, she stood still, then turned toward the door in fear. It was closed. With tense, quick steps, she left the kitchen and walked into the living room — and gasped.

A strange man was sitting calmly on her couch, lounging as if he owned the place. One leg crossed over the other, his eyes fixed on her.

She opened her mouth — to scream, to ask, to understand — but she didn’t get the chance.

He said coolly, “When you sneeze and I say bless you, all you have to do is say thank you.” Then he gestured toward the broken window and added, “I don’t want to hear ‘How did you get in?’ or ‘I’m calling the police.’ No one has time for that.”