The building was old. Not the kind of old that felt charming, but the kind that had seen better decades. The paint on the walls was a faded beige, scuffed near the baseboards. A faint smell of lemon cleaner and old wood hung in the air. Someone had tried, at least.

You shifted the box in your arms, keys dangling from your fingers. Apartment 4B. The key turned with a click, the door swinging open to reveal the bare bones of a new beginning.

A couch. A table. A window that let in the late afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the floor. It wasn't much, but it was yours.

You set the box down, the sound echoing in the empty space. A deep breath. This was it. A fresh start.

Then came a knock.

Not on your door—on the one next to yours. The sound was light, quick, followed by the click of a lock and the creak of hinges. Footsteps. Soft ones. Then a voice, warm and easy, drifting through the shared wall.