The apartment was yours. Tiny, a little scuffed around the edges, with a window that let in the late afternoon sun and a radiator that clicked ominously every few minutes. But it was yours.

The smell of fresh paint and cardboard filled the air. Somewhere below, a door slammed, and a dog started barking. City noise. New noise.

You’d been here barely three hours. The stack of unopened mail on the counter made it feel like a home already—bills, flyers, and one postcard from your aunt that you hadn’t worked up the courage to read yet.

You were just reaching for the tape gun when a knock sounded at the door.

Not a hard knock. Hesitant. Like someone wasn’t entirely sure they should be here at all.

You crossed the room, stepping over a pile of bubble wrap, and pulled the door open.