She opens the fridge door, letting the cool air brush her face. Inside—half a lemon, a few eggs, a bag of wilting spinach, an open jar of kimchi. Nothing remotely satisfying.
She closes the door with a sigh and rubs the back of her neck.
"I should go to the market… or just get takeout near home," she murmurs to herself.
Grace reaches for her slim, worn card wallet resting on the corner of the sofa. With just that and her phone in hand, she slips on her slippers and heads out the door, pulling it shut behind her with a soft click. No bag. No keys. Just the essentials. The kind of morning where anything extra feels unnecessary.
She presses the elevator button, its glow blinking in soft orange. The hallway is quiet—the kind of stillness that only early mornings or mid-autumn weekdays seem to hold. When the elevator arrives with a gentle chime, she steps into the empty car. The doors close silently behind her. She presses the button for the first floor and leans lightly against the wall, watching the floor numbers blink in quiet succession.
The elevator glides down smoothly. A brief pause. Then the doors open to the muted light of the apartment lobby. She walks out and pushes through the glass door to the outside, instantly met by the crisp, sweet breath of early autumn.
The air carries a soft chill, but the sun is already brushing the tops of buildings in gold. The faint scent of dry leaves mixes with the warm trace of roasted barley drifting from a distant cafe. Grace walks quickly, instinctively. Her steps are light but fast, like she's chasing something invisible ahead of her.
As she passes through the front entrance gate, her phone buzzes sharply in her hand. She glances down, thumb already swiping, mind half focused—and that's when she bumps into someone.
"Oh—sorry!" she blurts out, startled, taking a quick step back.
"It's okay. I'm sorry too," the voice replies, calm and warm.
She looks up.
A man looking to be in his late twenties stands in front of her, his arms full of rattling recycling bags. He's wearing a black cap that casts a soft shadow over his face, but there's no mistaking him. She knows who he is.
He's the new neighbor—well, not so new anymore—who moved into the building a few months ago. When he first arrived, he'd gone door to door, introducing himself with a quiet smile and warm homemade pies, like something out of a quaint storybook.
She remembers him standing at her door that day, holding out a box wrapped in a gingham cloth, the scent of fresh apples and cinnamon wafting up as she opened it.
That pie. That stupidly good apple pie. She'd devoured the entire thing that evening, fork scraping the tin in record time, not even bothering to refrigerate the leftovers—because there weren't any.
Remembering that small but striking kindness, she smiles.
"Thank you for that apple pie when you moved in. It was really, really good."
His eyes crinkle a little under the brim of his cap. There's something gentle about the way he looks at her, like he's not surprised she remembered.
"I'm glad you liked it," he says softly.
There's a beat. A short moment that lingers in the cool air—unrushed, uncomplicated.
"Thanks," Grace says, her smile still lingering. She shifts her gaze back to the path ahead. "Well… have a good day."
"You too," he replies, his voice low, steady.
As she walks away, the breeze picks up again, rustling the trees that line the path out of the apartment complex. Behind her, the soft clink of bottles in plastic bags is the only sound left of him.
As Grace walks past him, his last words trail softly behind her like a thread tugging at memory.
"Have a good day."
She slows instinctively. Her heel hesitates against the pavement.
That voice…
There's something about the way he says it—the warmth in his tone, the smooth cadence, the quiet sincerity. It brushes the edge of something familiar, like a half-forgotten melody from another season.
But she doesn't dwell. She's not the type to chase ghosts in voices. With a silent shrug to herself, she continues walking, her steps falling into rhythm again with the soft hush of morning.
At the corner market, she grabs what she needs without much thought: a pack of frozen chicken nuggets and a cup of instant noodles—the kind she can toss into the air fryer and boiling water without thinking. Her version of comfort food, the kind that expects nothing from her.
She doesn't bother with a bag. Cradling both items awkwardly in her arms, she makes the short walk back, the frozen nuggets numbing her skin slightly through the plastic. The neighborhood is still quiet, bathed in the kind of warm early-autumn light that makes everything look softer around the edges.
When she reaches the lobby and pushes through the glass doors, she nearly bumps into him again.
The neighbor.
Same black cap. Same calm energy. But now, he's juggling even more recycling bags, clearly en route to the basement.
Their eyes meet again.
"Oh, hi," she says, offering a polite nod and a faint smile.
"Hello," he replies, shifting the bags slightly to greet her without dropping anything.
She hesitates, then blurts it out before overthinking. "Do you need help, by any chance?"
He glances at the chicken nuggets and noodles in her arms, eyebrows lifting slightly in amused disbelief.
"No, it's all right," he says, smiling. Then, a half-second later, he says, "Actually... yeah. If you don't mind. I may have underestimated how many bags I could carry at once."
"Sure," she says, walking over to the small cushioned bench in the lobby
She sets down her groceries carefully, almost ceremonially, like she's laying down offerings.
"I'm so sorry to make you go downstairs," he says, a note of guilt in his voice.
She waves it off with a soft laugh.
"No worries. This is what neighbors are for." A beat, and her expression turns playful. "And besides… the apple pie you gave me when you moved in? It was dangerously good. I kind of feel morally obligated to help you for the rest of the year."
He chuckles and replies, "Glad it left an impression."
She reaches for one of the bags and pulls it toward her. It barely weighs anything.
"Huh," she says aloud, half to herself. "It's way lighter than I expected."
He grins.
"Mostly plastic. I just got overconfident and didn't want to make two trips."
They begin walking toward the stairwell together. Grace is aware of how close their steps are, how natural it feels—even with a crinkling recycling bag swinging from her hand and frozen nuggets waiting patiently on the bench.
There's an unspoken ease between them, the kind that usually takes weeks or months to form. And yet, here it is, unfolding quietly in the stairwell of a shared apartment building, tucked into the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the faint smell of soap and concrete.
And though Grace doesn't say it aloud, the thought lingers just under the surface—
That voice. That presence.
Why does he feel like someone I should already know?
But she says nothing, only follows his lead as they make their way down together.
Grace pushes the lingering thought aside, brushing it off like lint on her sleeve.
There's no way, she tells herself.
She doesn't have time for imagination right now.
She follows the man toward the back of the lobby. He doesn't speak, just gestures casually toward the beige utility door tucked beside the mailroom. The one most people ignore.
He opens it without looking back.
She hesitates for a second before stepping in. The staircase is narrow, the light dim and yellowing. It hums faintly, flickering like it's tired of being alive. The air here smells faintly of old dust and something metallic—like rusted railings and forgotten screws.
She regrets not taking the elevator. Just for a second.
It's only one flight, she reminds herself.
The door clicks shut behind them, muting the world above. For a moment, it's just the soft sound of footsteps echoing down the concrete stairs and—
A hum.
He's humming again.
Something tuneless, low, almost cheerful. It echoes oddly in the enclosed stairwell, bouncing around the walls like it's trying to find a key.
He walks in a slow, easy rhythm, his arms still cradling the plastic bags. She follows behind, chicken nuggets and instant noodles tucked awkwardly against her chest.
He's in a good mood, she thinks.
Maybe it's the satisfaction of finishing his recycling. Maybe he's just one of those effortlessly kind people who hums when they feel at ease.
But something gnaws at the back of her mind. A pressure. A whisper that says Something's off.
She ignores it.
They reach the bottom landing. The thick door to the basement stands in front of them, dented and scratched from years of use. He reaches forward, turning the heavy handle with a metallic groan, and opens it wide.
Grace gives him a polite nod, steps toward the door—
And then—
A hand.
A large, hot, unmistakably human hand clamps down over her mouth from behind.
It's not gentle.
It's not hesitant.
It's decisive.
Her breath halts. Her vision jolts. The world shifts sideways.