Every morning, the old violin maker kept an eye out for the strange homeless man. But there was no sign of him. After a week of waiting, Gustave gives up and stows the medallion in the small lost and found basket in the kitchen.
“Christine!” shouts the Swedish-born man through the store. His only daughter, his light, his everything, appears from behind a shelf. She is holding a box of different gut strings. She looks at him questioningly, “Min Älskling, I have to go to the bank. Can you look after store for a moment?” he asks and puts on a jacket. At the same time, he looks out of the small window next to him, it looks like rain. He reaches for an umbrella. “Sure. There's nothing going on today anyway.” She turns around and continues to fill the shelf. Her thick, brown-red curls are bouncing back and forth in her ponytail with every movement. Christine Daae has not only inherited the curls from her mother's bloodline. Every day since the loss, Gustave has been forced to watch how his once little daughter, has become more and more of a copy of his great love.
It is comforting to see that she has not completely disappeared and has left him a real treasure. Nevertheless, he is painfully reminded every day that she is no more.

“Do you need anything from the city?”
“The store needs coffee and toilet paper again. Oh, and the counter rolls, can you stop by the cashier guy?" Gustave stares at her, if he didn't have her, the store would be lost within a week. He nods hastily, looks for a piece of paper and a pen to make notes. “And you need?” he asks without looking up. “A croissant,” she moans hungrily, '“Hmm, with this apricoco filling?” Gustave asks contentedly, he can almost taste the croissant. “Yes, with this delicious apricot filling...” They both indulge in the thought. “All right, I'd better hurry!” he shouts, and with that he disappears out of the store.

Christine wanders through the shelves. She sorts goods that have been accidentally carried around by customers. She checks for dust on the top shelves. She inspects the violins on display for fingerprints on the varnish. She loves the store, at least as much as she loves her father. The half-orphan hardly remembers her mother, she has come to terms with the dull pain of her loss. As a child, she automatically tried to be strong. It was clear to her that she had lost her mother, but her father had lost the love of his life. It weighed far heavier for her. There were days when she feared that her father would never laugh again. That he would disappear, like her mother, but in a different way.

Slower.
More painful.

That he just doesn't get up anymore.
But they both made it. Christine had made sure of that. She supported her father in the household from a young age and took on tasks that a 6-year-old child would never have had to do. But the special circumstances required special arrangements. Even when her father gradually got better years after the loss, Christine was still involved in the store. She helped him after school and at weekends. There wasn't much time left for herself or friendships. Her anchor in life is the store, her father, and perhaps her best friend.

That's all she needs.
That's all she wants.
That's all she has.

She never even wanted to start studying, she only did so at her father's request. She shouldn't give herself up for him, he said one evening. 

But that's her job in this life, isn't it?
Who else is she without this task?

Christine disappears into the store's small kitchen and starts to clean the coffee machine's drip tray. The old coffee grinds end up in the garbage can, which is already full. She puts the drip tray in the sink and starts to clean it. A little later, she straightens the bag of garbage, grabs a small umbrella and takes a look around the deserted store. No one is there. She opens the door to the side street, opens the umbrella and steps out into the cool damp. She breathes in cold, damp air and exhales clouds.

For sure it is autumn. She turns to the side and stops. A dark figure crouches on the wet ground in front of the dumpster. The figure crawls on all fours close to the ground. Christine frowns and slowly gets closer. There is a large backpack on the figure's back, which keeps sliding to the side. The person is trying to adjust the backpack with one hand and seems to be looking for something under the container with the other hand. A low growl resounds. Christine stops, her gaze wanders to the stranger's combat boots. A small dog is standing next to the boots, its eyes fixed on her, its neck fur bristled and its teeth bared. The person scoots backwards and grabs the dog roughly by the neck. “Hey!” he hisses, “Stop it!”. Christine slowly comes closer. The young man pulls the dog towards him and lifts it up. “Have you been hiding drugs?” Christine asks bluntly.

Why the hell am I asking that? Am I tired of life? What if he attacks me now?
“No,” he mumbles and makes room for her to get to the garbage container. “But?” she asks dryly, clutching the umbrella between her jawline and shoulder, lifting the container flap and throwing the garbage in. It may be that her father likes to make friends with strays, but she is not as naive as he is. It's her duty to make sure nothing happens to the store or her father.
“I was... looking for something...” he mumbles, turns around hesitantly and starts to leave. Christine turns and looks at him. “Drugs?” she asks again.
Why can't I keep my mouth shut?
But she has to know if there's a drug hub here, it means there are criminals near the store which could be raided at any time.

Violins are expensive.

A sigh escapes the man, he adjusts his hood with one hand, the other hand is wrapped tightly around the puppy. The dog begins to fidget. “Something that belongs to me. But it's not there... I'm sorry...” he whispers and lifts his head for the first time. He looks in her direction. Black hair sticks wet to his forehead. His bangs are tousled and choppy cut. One eye looks more narrow than the other. She can't really make it out, the hood casts a shadow. But she suspects that his skin must have some kind of disease or is simply sore. Perhaps he was involved in a fight the days before. Unlike her father, Christine has a natural dislike and distrust of strangers. Especially strangers who carry a bad reputation with them.

An old, dirty surgical mask covers the lower part of his face, up to his chin he wears a scarf. Over his washed out, faded sweater, he wears a dirty old leather jacket. The knees of his tartan trousers are soaking wet. A homeless punk is standing in front of her. Not uncommon in her city. Still, he's the first punk who doesn't appear to be drunk or ranting. It almost seems as if he has manners.
Slowly her tension eases, he doesn't seem to be a threat. At least not yet. “Fine,” she finally says, breaking out of her stupor and leaving, “I have to get back to the store.” she mumbles. “Have a... Have a nice day!” the punk calls after her. She raises her hand to say goodbye, but doesn't turn around, then disappears around the corner and goes back into the store through the main entrance.
Some time later, Gustave enters through the door. The bell on the door rings briefly, then rings again, and the door slams shut. “Bloody weather!” he calls into the store.
Silence answers him.
“What kind of rain is this? What's it called?” he calls out again.
No answer.
“Christine?” he calls louder.
“I'm in the kitchen!” comes the reply. He wipes his shoes dry, puts the umbrella in the umbrella stand and takes off his wet jacket.
“No customers?” he asks and enters the kitchen.
“No,” she mumbles and reassembles the coffee machine. “Where's our flashlight?” she asks thoughtfully. Her father hangs the jacket on a small hook next to the sink. Then he reaches up onto one of the higher shelves and hands her the flashlight.
“What do you need it for?”
“I just had an unexpected interaction with a homeless man...” she begins, “What?? Did something happen?”
“Nope, he was really nice, I just want to take a quick look...” she takes the flashlight. “Look at what exactly?”
“The guy was doing something under the container, he said he was looking for something. I'm guessing drugs...”
“Drugs?” Gustave's eyebrows lift a little, exposing his eyes. He looks past Christine, to the small basket with all the lost property. “I think... he's looking for this.” He leans over his daughter and reaches into the small basket. His hand feels its way past a glove, a pair of sunglasses and a pacifier to the medallion. It rustles as the necklace is pulled out of the basket.
“He misses this,” he shows it to Christine.
“What's this?”
“Family.”