Juju and I moved here on a foggy morning in early winter. There wasn’t that much to move—just an old wardrobe, a desk, and a few boxes. It was simple enough. Sitting on the enclosed porch, I watched the small truck rattle off into the mist. Juju sniffed around the house, checking the cinderblock wall and the glass panel in the door, as if to reassure himself about his new home. He made little grumbling noises as he worked, his head cocked to one side.

The fog was rolling away in gentle waves. It was not the sort of suffocating fog that swallows everything; in fact, this fog seemed pure and almost transparent, like a cool, thin veil that you could reach out and touch. I stared at it for a long time, leaning against the boxes, until I felt as if I could see each milky droplet. Juju had grown tired of sniffing and was curled up at my feet. Feeling a chill on my back, I peeled away the tape on the box I had been leaning against, pulled out a sweater, and put it on. A bird flew straight into the fog and disappeared.

My fiancé fell in love with the house first.

“Doesn’t it seem a little old-fashioned?” I said, rubbing my finger over a faded storm shutter.

“Old, but good and sturdy,” he said, looking up at a thick pillar.

“The stove and the hot-water heater are ancient,” I said as I turned a knob on the oven. It made a dry, clicking sound. The tiles on the kitchen walls had been carefully scrubbed, but they were chipped in places and the cement underneath showed through in an elaborate geometric pattern.

“This is amazing,” he said to the woman from the real-estate office. “The stove is German, and practically an antique. It must be quite rare.”

“It is,” she said, nodding emphatically. “It was left behind by a German student who rented the place several years ago. It’s a genuine German stove.” She stressed the word “German.”

“Then it should never break down,” he said and smiled at me.

We inspected the bedroom, the bathroom, and the living room, checked the doors, looked for rust on the pipes, and counted the electrical outlets. It didn’t take long. All the rooms were small but cozy. As we came to the porch, he looked out at the yard through the glass doors. It was completely bare. No plants, no flower beds, nothing at all except an occasional patch of clover.

“Let’s take it,” he said. “It would be perfect for Juju, too.”

“It would be good for Juju,” I agreed.

The most important thing was that we’d found a place where we could live with Juju. Beyond that, there was very little we could do to prepare for our marriage, particularly since everyone we knew seemed to be against it. Whenever we told someone that we were considering the possibility, we’d get a sombre look and a long pause. “You should really give yourselves time to think this over,” we were invariably told. The reasons were familiar ones. He was divorced. He’d been trying to pass the bar exam for ten years. He had high blood pressure and suffered from migraines. The difference in our ages was excessive, and we were very poor.

Juju yawned. He lay in the yard now, in an elegant sprawl, his black and brown spots vivid against a patch of clover. The fog was thinning, and there were rays of sunlight here and there.

It occurred to me that I should be doing something. I could put up new curtains or paint the bathroom, or I could line the closets with mothballs; in fact, there were any number of improvements to be made to this old house. In three weeks, my fiancé and I would be married—a small ceremony, with only the two of us present—and then he would move here. In the meantime, it was up to me to get the house ready.

But for now I just wanted to watch the fog. There was no need to hurry, and I was determined to take full advantage of these last three weeks of my single life.

The next day it rained. It was raining when I woke up, and it rained all day without a break. Fine, threadlike drops slid down the window one after another. The house across the way, the telephone poles, Juju’s kennel—everything was quietly soaking up water.

I made almost no progress with the boxes. The morning passed while I reread old letters and flipped through photo albums, and suddenly it was noon. I thought about making something to eat, but I didn’t have proper dishes or utensils in the kitchen. And it was too much trouble to go out for something in the rain. In the end, I boiled water for instant soup and gnawed on some crackers I kept for emergencies. The German stove lit immediately.

The unfamiliar room and the crumbly cracker in my mouth made the sound of the rain seem particularly sad. I wanted to hear my fiancé’s voice, but there was no telephone. No television or radio or stereo, either. With nothing else to do, I went to the front hall, where Juju was lying on the floor, and scooped him up in my arms. Startled, he wriggled and wagged his tail with delight.

In the afternoon, I decided to repaint the bathroom. Like the other rooms in the house, it was quite small—just a porcelain tub, a chrome faucet, and a towel rack. Still, it didn’t feel cramped, perhaps because the ceiling was high and there was a large window. The room had been painted a romantic shade of pink, by the German student, I guessed. There were faint traces of color on the edges of the tiles, but it had faded after long years of steam and soap.

I changed into old clothes and put on rubber gloves. I turned on the ventilation fan and opened the window. It was still raining.

The fresh paint looked better on the walls than I had expected, and the bathroom soon seemed bright and inviting. Occasionally, a drop of rain would come in through the window, landing on an area that I had just painted. I moved the brush carefully, concentrating on getting an even coat. When I was about half done, the buzzer on the front door rang. It was the first time I had heard it, and it took me by surprise. There was something wild about the sound, like the cry of an animal.

When I opened the door, I found a boy, perhaps three years old, and a man in his thirties, who appeared to be the boy’s father. They wore identical clear-plastic raincoats with the hoods pulled up over their heads. The coats were dripping wet, and rain fell from them onto the floor.

“We’re sorry to bother you on such a rainy day,” the man said, without introducing himself or saying why he had come. “Have you just moved in?”

I was a bit taken aback. “Well,” I answered vaguely.

“It’s a nice neighborhood,” the man continued, glancing over at Juju, who was stretched out on the floor. “Near the ocean, but still very peaceful.” The child stood quietly, holding tightly to his father’s hand. His yellow boots, as tiny as toys, were also covered with raindrops. There was a silence.