jack's apartment is small, old, and comfortably cluttered. the most striking item is a vintage phone booth placed against the wall. as jack lets himself in, eddie, the dog from the window, walks over. he is not an overly enthusiastic dog, but you can see from his face that he has a great deal of affection for jack.
jack lets himself into his apartment and stops. across the room, curled up on the couch, is a little girl. jack takes the girl gently in his arms and carries her to the bedroom. as he folds a blanket under her chin, he pauses. the girl's face is calm, peaceful.
jack places a record on the turntable and sits at the piano by the window. as the needle hits the spinning disc, a sharp, snappy bass line reverberates throughout the apartment. jack takes a drink, then joins in with the record, playing along. his concentration is intense, so much so that, a moment later, when the phone rings, he seems not to hear it. finally, he picks it up.
jack enters with a small grocery bag and opens the refrigerator. a carton of cream, a few eggs -- there's not much there. he takes a small container of cottage cheese from the grocery bag and places it on an empty shelf. as he closes the refrigerator door, he glances around the apartment. it is very still, very quiet. he looks up at the ceiling absently, then walks over to the window and looks out. there is a mug of coffee there on the sill. he takes it and holds it in both hands for a moment, then places it back on the sill. he sits at the piano and runs his fingers lightly over the ivory, not making a sound, then places his hands on the keys and begins to play. "jingle bells."
on the floor, a long line of bowls, each containing a different concoction, all intended for the ailing eddie. eddie, lying a few feet away, shows no interest. in the kitchen, jack is heating something up in a pan.
watching nina strike the final chord triumphantly. she turns to jack, who's been listening from the couch.
as jack enters his apartment, he senses a presence in the room and looks over to the old phone booth. nina is sitting inside on the little stool, her head tilted against the glass. jack studies her a moment, then takes the carton of eggnog he's carrying into the kitchen and grabs a pair of glasses. he pulls a chair over to the phone booth and sits down.
jack lets himself in and closes the door quietly. in the darkness he can make out nina and eddie, curled up on the couch, asleep. above them, hung carefully on a string, are some paper letters: "welcome home."
the record finishes, but the needle doesn't pick up, bumping into the label. jack glances at the clock next to him and gets up. he puts on a jacket, then takes a pair of gloves and pulls them on carefully.