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.