I jumped up in fright. I was on my bed. The door was half open. The sound of cooking came from downstairs—the clatter of pots, the sizzle of oil.
Tired from my terrifying dream, I went downstairs. On the way, I quietly and stealthily glanced into Ada's room again. The curtain was drawn. Loki was sitting on the bed, watching me. An open notebook by the bedside, the same one.
I immediately ran down the stairs in fear, my bare feet cold on the wood.
My kind Ada was cooking in the kitchen. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot, her back to me. But the aroma of the food didn't reach me. I could see the steam rising from the pot, I could hear the bubbling of the liquid, but my nose detected nothing. Aodin's gaze delicious smell, however, was intoxicated. His eyes were half-closed, his whiskers forward, as if he could smell everything: the onions, the fried meat in butter, the spices.
"Did the noise of cooking or the smell of food keep you from sleeping?" Ada asked without turning around.
"How strange," I said. "I think I'm getting a cold. I didn't notice the smell of food."
"I myself sometimes don't notice the smell of food when my mind is busy," Ada said, finally turning to face me. She wiped her hands on her apron. "And if I didn't see Odin's intoxicated look, I would doubt that I even cooked anything." She gave me a mischievous wink. "I had a strange dream."
"Did you even sleep?" she asked.
"Yes, it was short."
"But I just came down and started cooking," she said, frowning. "When did you sleep? When did you dream?"
In my mind, a long time had passed. Hours, at least. But the clock on the wall said only fifteen minutes.
Ada continued, as if this was completely normal: "This isn't strange at all. Some dreams contain so many different events and emotions that the brain records them as a long-term experience. You dream for five minutes, but your mind tells you it was days."
"The food will be ready in about an hour," she added.
"Can I connect to the house Wi-Fi?" I asked.
"Yes, of course. But…" Ada seemed hesitant. "It gets disconnected sometimes, or it's weak. I think the problem is with the modem. I'll change it soon."
I was waiting for the password.
Odin quickly ran up the stairs—I heard his claws clicking—and returned a moment later with Ada's notebook in his mouth. He dropped it at her feet.
"Don't look so surprised," Ada said, picking up the notebook. "It's normal here. Dogs are very smart."
Ada was hurriedly flipping through the notebook. "Where did I write it…" She was completely flustered. The sound of melted butter, meat, and onions was growing louder from the stove, and I could see that the pan was starting to smoke. I went to the stove to stir the food a bit, thinking maybe she was startled by the noise. But no, she was nervous. Her hands were shaking as she turned the pages.
So she started explaining.
"You know, it's been a long time since I've used the internet," she said. "I don't understand how things were in the old days. Healthy life, real connections… all the troubles started with these damn phones. They don't let the brain turn off. Hours spent on various apps, but the brain doesn't feel it. You constantly have hidden anxiety. Everyone wants to pry into your business. I don't miss any of it."
I took her hand. "I just want to send a message saying I've arrived," I said gently. "If you can't find the password, it's not important at all. I'll just call directly."
She took a deep breath, visibly relieved. "It's in this notebook, but I don't remember where I wrote it. I'll find it and tell you later. In the meantime, you can use my phone."
Ada's phone was by the large living room window. Apparently, the signal was best there. I picked upmy phone and walked toward the window, but then I stopped. The view of the garden was so beautiful—the rain on the leaves, the mist rising from the grass—that I unconsciously wanted to sit and stare outside for hours.
But I had come from outside. I had just been in that garden. And the garden wasn't that beautiful in reality. It was ordinary, a bit overgrown, a bit neglected. But from this window, it looked like a painting. The colors were more vibrant, the light was softer, the shapes were more perfect. It was as if the window was showing me a version of the garden that didn't exist.
I went to the window to open it, to feel the real air, to confirm that the garden was real. But this window, like the other windows of the house, was fastened too tightly. The lock was stiff, almost fused shut. And every time I tried to force it, the sky outside seemed to darken. The rain grew heavier. The wind picked up.
Ada rushed from the kitchen.
"The outside air is very cold," she said, her voice tight. "Do you really want to open the window?"
She was very anxious. Her eyes kept darting to the glass, as if she expected something to press against it from the other side. But what was supposed to happen? This much anxiety about opening a window was strange.
"The food is ready!" she announced suddenly.
I looked at the stove. She had just started cooking. But now there was a full meal on the table—soup, bread, a salad, and what looked like a meat stew. "How did it get ready so soon?" I asked. "You were just frying the meat."
"The timing in this house is strange," Ada said, sitting down at the table. "It either passes too quickly or too slowly. You'll get used to it."
The food looked delicious, perfectly cooked. Steam rose from the stew, carrying the smell of herbs and garlic. When I started eating, the taste fascinated me intensely. It was incredibly delicious—rich and complex, with layers of flavor that I couldn't identify. Ada's cooking was always good, but this was different. This was too delicious. It was the kind of food that made you want to eat forever, that made you forget everything except the next bite.
But the strange thing was that Loki and Odin were also eating the same food. They had bowls on the floor next to the table, and they were eating with the same enthusiasm as me.
"Ada," I said, "you know, spices and generally our food are poison for pets. They should eat their own food—dry food, or at least food without spices prepared specially for them."
"We've been eating together for three years now," Ada said calmly, "and they have no problems. You know, I got them dry food, but they didn't eat it at all. And later, the dry food got worms. That's when I realized they understand better than me what's good for them and what's not."
Three years. How was that possible? I was at Ada's house last year. She didn't have a cat or a dog then. I wanted to explain this to her, to point out the inconsistency, but the craving for the food wouldn't let me speak. The more I ate, the more I wanted. My mind was hazy, focused only on the next bite. Maybe she wasn't paying attention and got the time wrong. Anyway, eating the food at this moment was better than nitpicking details.
"Ada," I said between bites, "I really just ate the best meal of my life tonight. Even tastier than the Grand Pasha restaurant."
For a moment, everyone remained motionless. Ada's breathing quickened. Her face paled. She didn't look well. But we had many good memories at that restaurant. I continued, hoping to cheer her up.
"Oh, remember that night I drank Raki for the first time?"
Suddenly, Ada smiled. A real smile, but distant, as if she was pulling a memory out from under the dust of an old trunk. Beloved, but far away. Now I had to dust off the memory, so I continued. "I kept saying it's delicious, more and more, and you were laughing and yelling, 'You idiot, you're drunk and you don't even know it!'"
Ada's laughter grew, and this time she continued. "And you were drinking Raki just for the taste," she said, her voice warming. "You loved turnip juice and thought you couldn't drink it without Raki!"
We burst out laughing loudly. The sound echoed off the walls of the kitchen. With our laughter, Odin started spinning excitedly, his tail wagging furiously, and he let out a joyful howl.
Loki's round eyes were on us, black and unblinking. It was as if no one had laughed out loud in this house for years. He looked almost surprised.
I continued. "Remember at the end, I was so drunk I wanted to wash all the dishes in the restaurant?"
Ada, breathless from laughing, said, "You had taken the napkin from the waiter and kept cleaning the table!"
"Hey," I said, "what do you say we go there tomorrow, ma'am?"
Suddenly, it was as if time stopped.
The house lights flickered—once, twice. All of Ada's laughter turned into a strange anxiety within a fraction of a second. The aroma of the food spread unnaturally, intensifying until it was almost overwhelming, as if we were hungry again, desperately hungry, even though we had just eaten. The sound of thunder broke the silence, a deep, rolling crack that seemed to come from inside the walls. Ada, while anxiously and hastily piling up the food dishes, said,
"I don't think that's a good idea. Look at the weather. Besides, maybe you didn't like my food, which is why you crave restaurant food."
No matter how much I tried to interrupt her, she wouldn't let me speak. She talked nonstop, bringing up stranger and stranger excuses not to go. The restaurant was too far. The food there wasn't as healthy. She didn't have the right clothes. She was tired. She had work to do. I got up from the table and hugged her tightly. "You are the best cook in the world," I said. "We're not going anywhere tomorrow."
Her whole body was cold. I felt cold sweat on her forehead. But how bad could the memories of that restaurant be to deserve such a harsh reaction?
"I just want to take care of you," she whispered. "You know, Noshin, it's memories that make people miserable. Let's live in the moment, but not make memories."
"Ada," I said, pulling back to look at her face, "my friendship with you right now is the result of a world of good and bad memories. Can you even live without memories and making memories?"
Loki started meowing loudly, a persistent, grating sound. Odin started chasing him, running in circles around the living room. It was as if they were fully aware of how to create a distraction, to shift the conversation and atmosphere so deep discussions wouldn't happen between us.
"It's late," Ada said, standing up. "We should go to sleep. You're tired too."
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Try not to use a clock for a while," she said. "Use your senses. Find time. When there were no clocks, how did people know what time to do what?"
Every moment, Ada's words seemed stranger to me than before. Suddenly, I remembered my afternoon dream. The notebook with the short lines counting down the days. The tally marks.
Ada was running from something. But there was no escape route.