My sister is a genius singer and me, a worthless person without talent

The way home was a bit tedious. It involved taking public transport, then the subway, then public transport again, followed by a ten-minute walk. During that routine, it was impossible not to get tired—or, in the worst cases, fed up with life.

It wasn't so much the distance as it was the time. Years ago, I'd heard that humans waste a quarter of their lives sleeping and commuting to work.

But we couldn't change reality, and everything good was always far from home (even though we rarely left home).

On that afernoon commute, we were accompanied by a stranger.

"Don't expect much," I warned her for the third time as we walked in sync, side by side, down the worn-out sidewalk. I could feel the ground crunching strangely beneath each step, which made no sense (I mean, it's a sidewalk), but somehow, that was normal in this place.

"I'm not a princess, Lucas. I've seen things," she smiled, confident.

She had told me earlier that she had family living in the district, but I detected a hint of fear in her voice—because no one ever gets used to this place.

I understood. It was common knowledge that the Flowers District was one of the most dangerous in the city.

Then we arrived, and almost subversively, we opened the door. Because the people who entered weren't just Maria and me—there was Emilia, watching everything with extreme caution, distant, as if she were standing before a historical monument or a zoo.

It was a simple house—a concrete cube with windows, one story tall, with a rooftop where we hung our laundry to dry.

The smell hit her first: an unmistakable mix of instant food, old dust, and a faint trace of trapped dampness. It could've been worse, I'll admit, but it wasn't exactly what you'd call cozy. And Emilia, who always smelled like jasmine soap and carried a thermos of tea made from some unpronounceable flower, was not prepared.

It had been a rushed decision, and I hadn't had time to tidy up—though I seriously doubted I'd have mustered the motivation for it anyway. So, everything was noticeably neglected.

Until recently, I hadn't had any real free time except at night. Even after getting fired from my regular job, I'd go out to scrape by however I could. In places I didn't even know how I'd ended up in.

Very occasionally, I'd find someone who'd hire me for a couple of weeks or days—painting walls, tending gardens, hauling sacks of cement. Moments like those made me regret telling my boss and his bar to go to hell. But my ego was bigger.

Maybe not. Maybe I thought fortune would smile on me if I suffered enough—which never happened, until a few days ago. But obviously, that idea was ridiculous. Either way, it was Maria's luck, not mine.

"So this is where you live," she said—not an exclamation, but a restrained sigh. Her voice died as she crossed the threshold. Her pupils trembled slightly, as if adjusting to a different reality.

I'd mentioned the dampness in the air, but it was more like an ethereal dust dancing in every corner of the room. It enveloped us like mist, and I felt like the house was grayer than usual.

"Were you expecting a penthouse?" I shrugged. I opened the dining room window like someone pulling an emergency lever. "Welcome. We have three rules: don't go into either of our rooms, don't ask what's in the drawer under the microwave, and if the toilet makes noises, just thank it for working."

Emilia blinked twice. Then she walked slowly, as if afraid of triggering a trap that would send her plummeting into a fifty-meter void.

"Yeah. Welcome to our home, Emi," Maria said in her usual lifeless tone—so unnatural it was funny. She struck a weird pose, raising her hands and spreading her feet into an "X." She said it with total pride.

Emilia brought a hand to her forehead.

"Mari, you shouldn't let this guy make you live in a place like this. You deserve better."

"Mmm, but I like it like this."

"That's because you've gotten used to it. I get it—change is hard. But you'll see how much better it is when your home is clean."

"Do you clean?" I asked her

"The maid does, she comes every other day… Hey, don't judge me." No one who gets paid to clean your house gets to talk. "But I keep my own room clean. It's not like I do nothing."

"Have I ever told you you're a total hypocrite?"

"Oh, there's mold."

"I'll clean it now." Even I have some shame.

We took a few steps forward into the tiny living room that greeted you right when you opened the door. Emilia sat on the old vinyl two-seater sofa—a knockoff of some settee-style couch my parents had brought when I was just six.

In front of us was an old antenna TV from decades ago, its screen scratched. It only picked up two channels: the news and one that only played ads.

To its left and right were single-seater sofas, both with high backs and upholstered in the same material, as if they'd arrived together.

"I see you don't ask for permission to sit," I said.

"I see you don't care about bringing a girl to a place like this. The only reason I came along is because my aunt and uncle live nearby, and I might drop by to say hi."

"I see. So…"

"Yeah, let's get started."

I'd convinced her to help Maria find a new style—fix her hair, treat her skin, her dark circles…

"You know I'm not an expert."

"But you're a girl. Aren't you supposed to know about this stuff?"

"Well, I don't know if I'm the right person. Also, what do you think women are? Born with a degree in dermatology?"

I agreed with Nowak on this new assessment—no jury would find it amusing if a girl dressed like a ghost walked onstage.

Maybe because I wasn't used to seeing these things, but the way Emilia moved her hands made her seem like a true master of all things cosmetic.

There was no background music, no cinematic montage of clothes flying through the air, no mirror scene with flickering lights like a movie star—but in my imaginary world, everything looked like that.

"I'm going to trim your bangs," she told Maria.

"What if you cut my eyes?" she asked, completely deadpan, as if that were a possible outcome but not particularly important.

"I'm not going to cut your eyes. I've watched all the tutorials."

"That doesn't reassure me."

It didn't reassure me either. Playing with scissors was one thing, but we didn't have money for a good stylist. Around here, there were plenty of barbers, but not many hairdressers for women.

"Maria, what was our deal?" I interjected, reminding her of our pact.

"That we'll have steak for dinner, within a week at most."

"Correct." This time, she'd made me specify a deadline for fulfilling my promise.

With steady hands, Emilia brushed my sister's hair away from her face, and for the first time, we could see her completely—no curtain in the way. Her hair was now so long it covered her eyes entirely, like an old veil draped over a bride's corpse.

Pale as rice paper, lips slightly chapped from lack of sun. When we finally saw them, her eyes blinked as if they didn't know there was a world outside.

She cut carefully, strand by strand, surely trying not to think about the symbolism of the act.

It was just hair.

Just scissors.

I hadn't told her, but she probably sensed it—this was the closest Maria had come to letting herself be seen in a long time.

When she finished, she didn't say anything. She went to the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror for a long minute—too long—then came back.

"It's not so bad, right? I told you you're pretty." 

Emilia was right. The image my sister presented was nothing like that spectral, sad aura. Instead, she now looked like a mysterious, expressionless beauty with a distant gaze.

"Umm, I don't like it," she said, slightly embarrassed.

"It suits you, Maria." I said

"Really?" Her eyes shimmered. "Hehehe."

"Okay, now you're back to looking creepy. I guess some things can't be changed." Emilia sounded a little irritated.

"Thanks, Emi."

"Huh? What? Me? It was nothing. You know… this is an investment… yeah, an investment." She seemed flustered now, trying to hide her blush.