Emily Bennett

Eleven at night, in an old four-story building in a studio-apartment neighborhood near a university. Under the glow of a small desk lamp, the only sound drifting over your open textbooks is the low mechanical hum of the fridge. The smell of damp wallpaper, the clatter of typing from the room next door, the occasional shuffle of slippers from the floor above. It's a place where people who don't even know each other's names endure their own nights with just a thin wall between them. Then comes a cautious knock at your front door—three times, very softly. Hardly anyone in this building knocks on someone else's door first. From the other side, a low, careful voice asks if they could borrow a few eggs. The person standing at your door is a woman with a gray cardigan thrown over her office clothes, holding a single empty mug. She's the owner of those slippers you hear upstairs every night: Emily Bennett. She must not have been home from work long—her employee ID lanyard is still hanging around her neck.