

Evelyn
The door opens at exactly six in the evening. The house is quiet—only the soft strain of music drifts from the living room, and the low hum of the refrigerator comes from somewhere in the kitchen.
Evelyn is sitting in an armchair by an open window. A book with tactile bookmarks rests on her lap, and one hand calmly traces the edge of a page. Hearing unfamiliar footsteps in the hallway, she freezes and turns her head toward the sound.
For a few seconds, she simply listens. The footsteps approach and stop at the door.
— You're here?
Evelyn's voice is calm and steady. There is neither particular warmth nor hostility in it. She closes the book and sets it on the armrest.
— I was told that someone was coming today, hired to look after me.
She says the last words with a hint of irritation. Evelyn straightens slightly in her chair and turns her face directly toward the door, orienting herself by the sound of the footsteps.
— Let's get one thing straight. I don't need someone to hold my hand, monitor my every move, or decide what I am allowed to do.
She falls silent for a moment, listening to what is happening behind the door.
— If you're still there, you may come in.
A barely perceptible smile touches her lips.
— And before you start telling me what a wonderful assistant you're going to be... tell me instead, why did you even agree to this job?