At exactly 5:30 every morning, the iron shutters of Ovidiu's butcher shop rattled twice before slowly rolling upward.
It was a sound everyone in the neighborhood recognized. For nearly thirty years, that familiar metallic noise had marked the beginning of another day in the quiet Romanian town. Bakers were lighting their ovens, delivery trucks were making their first rounds, and the streets were still wrapped in a pale blanket of autumn fog.
Inside the shop, Ovidiu stood behind his stainless-steel counter, sharpening his favorite boning knife.
He was fifty-two years old, broad-shouldered, with thick hands and a permanently tired expression. His father had taught him the butcher's trade when he was twelve, and he had inherited the shop after his father's death. Since then, he had served generations of families, remembered birthdays, attended funerals, and listened to more neighborhood secrets than most priests.
He believed he knew everyone who walked through his door.
Or at least, he thought he did.
The little brass bell above the entrance chimed.
Ovidiu looked up.
"Good morning, Lidia. You're early again."
The elderly woman standing in the doorway barely acknowledged him.
Lidia was seventy-three, perhaps seventy-five, depending on which version of her birthday story one believed. She lived alone in a small cottage near the abandoned industrial district, several kilometers from the town center. Her clothes were always clean but worn, and she usually carried an old canvas shopping cart with one squeaky wheel.
She had been a regular customer for years.
Normally, she bought a little soup bone, some minced pork, or perhaps a small piece of beef for dinner. Never anything expensive. Never anything unusual.
But that morning, something about her was different.
Her gray scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck, although the weather was not particularly cold. Her cardigan was buttoned incorrectly, and her hands trembled as she pushed the cart inside.
Ovidiu put down his knife.
"What can I get you today? The usual?"
Lidia approached the counter.
"No."
Her voice was quiet, but there was something unusually firm beneath it.
"I need sixty kilos of beef."
Ovidiu blinked.
For a moment, he thought he had misunderstood.
"Sorry?"
"Sixty kilos. Fresh beef. Prime cuts if possible. Ribeye, chuck, and tenderloin. I want everything divided into heavy-duty bags."
The butcher stared at her.
Then he laughed.
Not because he found her request particularly funny, but because his mind had no other way to process what he had just heard.
"Sixty kilos? Lidia, that's enough meat for a wedding reception. Are you feeding the entire village?"
She did not smile.
"I need it tomorrow morning."
Ovidiu slowly lowered his sharpening steel.
"Tomorrow?"
"And every morning after that."
The laughter disappeared from his face.
He looked at the elderly woman, then at the empty shopping cart behind her.
"Every morning?"
Lidia reached inside her coat and removed a thick brown envelope. She placed it on the counter and pushed it toward him.
The envelope landed with a heavy sound.
Ovidiu opened it.
Inside were bundles of banknotes, neatly arranged and held together with rubber bands.
He counted enough to cover the order. There was even more than the estimated cost.
"Where did you get all this money?"
"That's none of your concern."
"Lidia, sixty kilos of beef every day is not a normal household purchase. Are you cooking for a restaurant? Is someone paying you to buy it?"
"I don't run a restaurant."
"Then who is eating it?"
Her expression changed.
For the first time, Ovidiu noticed fear in her eyes.
Not ordinary embarrassment. Not the discomfort of someone caught doing something strange.
It was genuine fear.
She leaned closer.
"Please, Ovidiu. I need you to do exactly what I ask. Don't ask questions, don't tell anyone, and don't send anyone to follow me."
The last sentence made his stomach tighten.
"Why would I follow you?"
Lidia seemed to realize she had said too much.
She straightened, adjusted her scarf, and looked toward the door.
"Tomorrow. Five thirty. Have everything ready."
She left before he could answer.
For several minutes, Ovidiu stood motionless behind the counter.
He looked down at the envelope.
Then he looked through the glass window as Lidia's canvas cart disappeared into the fog.
Something about the entire encounter felt wrong.
That evening, he called his supplier and placed an order large enough to supply a small restaurant. He told himself there was no reason to interfere in someone else's business.
People were allowed to spend their money however they wanted.
But the following morning, Lidia returned.
And the morning after that.
By the third day, Ovidiu had begun to notice something that made him even more uncomfortable.
Lidia never bought vegetables, bread, spices, or anything else that could suggest she was preparing meals for a household.
She bought only raw beef.
Sixty kilograms.
Every single morning.
And when Ovidiu finally asked where all that meat was going, the old woman leaned across the counter and whispered something that made the butcher's blood run cold.
"Somebody is waiting for it."