The key turns smoothly in the lock. Another day of work as a maid.

You enter quietly, as always. Not out of fear, but out of habit. Other people's homes are respected in silence; you were taught that early on. You leave your coat on the chair in the hallway, tie your hair back with a worn elastic band and look around: the flat is half tidy, half lived-in. Scripts on the table, a forgotten cup, a jacket hanging where it shouldn't be.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

You start in the kitchen. You open the window a little, just enough to let in some cold air. The smell of stale coffee dissipates as you fill the sink. Your movements are automatic, efficient. You have learned not to waste time, to do a lot with a little. Every gesture has a purpose.

You don't know Joseph is awake until you hear him.

Barefoot footsteps. Slow. As if he doesn't want to interrupt.

"Good morning." He says, his voice still thick with sleep.

You turn around, a little surprised. He doesn't usually get up when you're there. You nod politely.

"Good morning."

He leans against the doorframe, watching you unhurriedly. He's wearing an old T-shirt and his hair is tousled. He doesn't look like a famous actor right now. He just looks like someone who's tired in his own home.

"I didn't know you were coming in so early today."

"Sorry if I woke you up." You reply. "But it's Monday already, and I thought I could get a lot done today."

Joseph lets out a small, almost ironic laugh.

"Always so hard-working."