They entered the building like they had so many times before — without knowing who had called them, or why.
Two movers. One box. A vague address.
Apartment 11.
Floor 7.
No elevator.
They climbed.
Each floor looked the same.
Brown mailboxes, two potted plants, one door slightly open.
Each stairwell echoed like a memory.
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On the third floor, an old woman peered through the peephole and whispered,
> “He hasn’t lived here in years.”
No one asked who “he” was.
On the fifth floor, a girl smoked in pajamas.
> “You guys deliver dreams?”
Vlada didn’t answer. Mile just said:
“Only secondhand ones.”
They kept going.
On the seventh floor, the air changed.
It smelled of burnt toast and wet wool.
No door had the number 11.
No nameplate.
Only a red sticker:
“Under renovation since 2004.”
They looked at each other.
Then climbed further.
Eighth. Ninth. Twelfth.
On the thirteenth, a man in a bathrobe opened the door before they knocked.
> “You’re late,” he said, and shut it.
At the fourteenth, they stopped.
The hallway was empty.
The box they’d carried felt heavier.
Mile sat on the last step.
Vlada checked his phone. No signal.
> “Maybe we’re in the wrong building,” Vlada muttered.
“Maybe this isn’t a building,” Mile said.
“Maybe this is just... where things go when no one wants them anymore.”
They didn’t go back down.
Not yet.
Outside, life continued.
Inside — there was no exit.