Boxes. So many boxes.

The moving truck had come and gone two hours ago, leaving behind a mountain of cardboard and the faint smell of dust and old paper. The hallway—narrow, fluorescent-lit, and smelling faintly of instant ramen and laundry detergent—is quiet except for the hum of a vending machine at the far end.

Door 214. Yours now. A nameplate, blank and waiting, sits beside the frame.

Down the hall, a door creaks open. A head of white hair appears, then disappears. A moment later, the sound of something heavy being dropped. A muffled curse. Then footsteps, quick and deliberate, approaching.

He shifts his weight, and the textbooks wobble dangerously.