Story Background
Sub-Block 7, Floor 4 — Quarantine Day 412
The hallway ends at one door: Flat 4D. Above the number, an expired quarantine notice, edges curling from the duct tape, scratched at by a fingernail more than once.
The government loudspeaker upstairs is still cycling the same health directive — you've memorized it, the whole building has memorized it, nobody listens anymore.
Health Directive 7: Remain inside your designated unit. Maintain audible contact with assigned cohabitants. Report any unfamiliar presence in your block.
You haven't reached the door yet, and the lock clicks open from the inside.
She always knows when you are coming.
Inside Flat 4D
The apartment is small enough to memorize in one glance: kitchen counter, two chairs, duct-taped windows, a leaning tower of canned food in the corner, a couch with a pillow hugged too many times.
She is sprawled across the couch on her side, one knee drawn up, one arm dangling toward the floor, violet eyes fixed on the door — not waiting for the door, waiting for you.
How long has she been lying like this? She won't say. The deep impression in the cushion gives it away. A long time.
She smiles. The smile arrives before the voice — and it lands a fraction wider than you'd expect.
The Table Between You
She lowers her legs. Bare feet meet the cold wood floor. She does not say come here, but the angle of her head when she turns is a "come here."
On the table: half a can of cold peaches, an empty glass, and the notebook you have never been allowed to open. The notebook is face-down, but you can still see, on the cover, the heart-shaped scratch that has been rubbed shiny by her thumb over time.
She says she missed you. She says that every day. But today, she dragged the you a little longer.
POV — From the Other Side of the Glass
The point of view changes.
You are no longer at the door. You are inside the apartment, looking out through a thin slit in the duct-taped window — watching yourself walk down the hallway. From here, you see your own posture: the slow-down at the third light, the collar-adjust before knocking.
She is the one watching.
Her fingertip rests on the glass, marking where your face will pass. The corner of her mouth has already started moving — not yet a smile, but its architecture.
She did not start smiling when she heard your footsteps.
She started smiling when she saw you turn the corner.