The day the laptop rebooted shouldn't have been like a miracle.

It was old, pre-owned before I bought it, held together with stubbornness and duct tape.

But in my house, anything that was broken seemed to be permanent — like life itself had taught us not to expect repairs.

That's why seeing Alex kneeling on the ground, tools scattered around him like a surgeon about to perform intricate surgery, gave my heart that wring.

---

Luis loomed over him, asking questions faster than he breathed.

"What's the silver bit? Why is it flashing? Is it dangerous? Can it electrocute you?"

Alex replied to each patiently, his deep voice sounding almost reassuring.

"This? That's the RAM. Flashing light means power's going through it, even if the screen isn't working. And yes — it may shock me, so mind the fingers."

Luis leaped over backwards, wide-eyed, but fascinated.

---

I leaned against the kitchen door, arms folded, watching them.

I had only wanted to ask if Alex would mind taking a look at the laptop — the stubborn machine which had died two weeks before in the midst of writing an application letter.

I had not expected him to produce, from under an old rucksack, a pair of screwdrivers whose tips were so fine they looked like they could have belonged to a jeweler's shop.

Or the accuracy with which his hands moved, measured, practically trained.

---

"Where did you learn all that?" I had asked myself.

He didn't glance up. "Taught myself mostly," he replied. "Dismantled things as a kid — radios, clocks. Some didn't make it."

Luis chuckled. "Mum used to call me 'Breaker of Toys.'"

Alex smiled weakly. "My mother used to call me 'Curious Cat'."

The softness in his tone when he spoke the word mother took me aback.

---

An hour passed — screws screwed in neat rows, wires run like veins.

Alex worked in silence, forehead furrowed in concentration, as Luis fetched water, tissues, even a tiny flashlight when dusk crept in.

Watching them, I could no longer deny it: Luis had opened the door for Alex.

He was no longer a guest. He was present — in our small room, in our daily rhythm, in Luis's laughter.

And maybe, dangerously, in mine too.

---

Finally, Alex pressed the power button.

The laptop screen flashed, lines dancing like recalcitrant spirits — and steadied into the old familiar desktop.

Luis let out a whoop so loud the neighbor's dog yapped.

"You did it!" Luis boomed, pounding Alex on the shoulder.

Alex let out a sigh, his chest sinking as if he'd been holding it since morning.

"It's alive," he said, half with relief, half laughing.

---

"Thanks," I said, quieter, but it was a burden.

Because it wasn't only the laptop he had fixed.

It was Luis's hope. My stubborn belief that sometimes, the things broken could be mended.

---

Later, while Luis scrolled through cartoons on the refurbished machine, I sat on the edge of Alex's mat.

"You didn't have to do that," I whispered.

"I wanted to," he said, just as quietly. "Not everything broken has to stay that way."

His eyes met mine, and my throat closed up.

For an instant, I wondered if he was referring to the laptop — or me.

---

I hesitated. "Janet thinks that you're hiding something."

A shadow crossed his face. "She's right," he replied, startling me. "I am."

My heart skipped a beat. "Then tell me. Something true."

---

He breathed in, blew out slowly. "Back home, before. all of this," he said, his voice staccato, "I worked on computers. Not as the big guy — as a repairman. Systems, security, things like that."

"That explains the screwdriver," I breathed.

"And the habit of just standing there staring at things that are broken until they break," he continued, with a flicker of humor.

---

It wasn't everything. But it was something real.

And it freaked me out how much that something could feel like enough.

---

Luis crawled over, eyes aglow. "Alex, can you teach me how to fix things?"

Alex hesitated. "One day," he promised. "But first — homework."

Luis grumbled, but Alex gave him a pretend-stern look.

I had to turn my head away to hide my smile.

---

While Luis slept, Alex and I sat at the window, sharing roasted groundnuts from a paper cone.

City lights blazed outside — a restless heartbeat.

"You made him happy today," I whispered.

"I didn't mean to," Alex said. "I just… wanted to know if I could help."

"Sometimes wanting to help is enough," I told him.

"Is it?" he asked, voice soft. "Even if you are not who they think you are?"

---

His words settled heavy in my chest.

"Are you dangerous?" I asked, forcing myself to look at him.

"No," he told me, steady, unbreakable. "Not to you. Not to Luis."

"Then what is this expression you have, like you're running from something?" I pressed on.

He looked down. "Because I am," he admitted. "And I cannot tell you more. Not yet."

---

I swallowed hard. "Do you promise you will?"

His eyes met mine. "Yes," he breathed. "I promise."

---

I wished I was sure he told the truth.

And worst — I was.

---

At night, he collected the tools into a compact pile, the set of screwdrivers fitting together like a puzzle.

As he zipped up the backpack, something within it rang out — a too-heavy, clinking sound.

I almost questioned him about it.

But the question was trapped behind my teeth.

Because certain answers, I wasn't prepared to hear.

---

When I switched off the light, the whine of the fan grew louder.

In the darkness, I listened to Luis breathe slowly and deeply, and Alex make furtive movements on the mat.

And for the first time in years, the night was not empty.

It was like waiting.

---

End of Chapter 7