The morning light filters weakly through Adrian's curtains, turning the room a muted gray less like daylight and more like the fading memory of it. He wakes with a dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that comes from too little sleep and too much thinking.
When he opens the door to check if the eviction notice has returned, he sees it instead.
A small paper bag, carefully folded at the top, sitting right on the worn doormat.
For a moment, he simply stares at it.
His brain feels slow, still booting up from days of numbness.
He crouches down, fingers brushing the bag like it might disappear if touched too quickly. Inside, he finds a wrapped sandwich still warm, somehow and a cold bottle of water.
Then he sees the note.
A small square of paper, handwriting neat but trembling:
"You don't have to answer the door.
Just… eat something today.
—M"
Adrian grips the note a little too tightly, the letters blurring for a moment as his eyes burn. Something in his chest twists, an emotion he can't name something halfway between gratitude and shame.
He hasn't spoken to anyone in days.
He hasn't eaten in two.
He hasn't felt seen in… longer than he can remember.
The idea that someone heard him the broken version of him last night makes him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that scares him.
"Who is M…?" he whispers to himself.
He steps into the hallway. It smells faintly of old carpet and someone's burnt toast. For a second, he thinks whoever left the food is probably long gone.
But then—
He hears the soft click of a lock.
Across the hall, a girl in a loose gray sweater is struggling with her keys. Her hair falls around her face like a curtain she's trying to hide behind. Her hands shake slightly as she tries to fit the key into the lock.
She freezes when she realizes he's there.
Adrian's breath catches.
It's not because she's beautiful in any cinematic sense it's because she looks fragile in a way that mirrors him. Like she's someone whose heart bruises easily, someone used to fighting invisible battles.
Their eyes meet.
He sees fear quick, startled.
But also softness.
And exhaustion that's too familiar.
For her part, Mary feels her stomach drop.
He's awake. He saw the bag. He knows it was her. Oh God.
Her brain begins its quiet, destructive spiral.
You shouldn't have done that. He's going to think you're weird. Too much. Too nosy. Too broken to mind your own business.
Her fingers fumble harder with the keys, and she almost drops them.
Adrian opens his mouth, wanting to say something anything.
"Are you… the one who—"
But before the words fully form, Mary shakes her head quickly not denying it, just panicking and pushes the key into the lock at last. She gets the door open but pauses, gripping the doorknob like it's anchoring her to the hallway.
For half a heartbeat, she looks at him again.
Her voice barely rises above a whisper, so soft he's not even sure she spoke.
"You're welcome."
Then she slips inside, closing the door with the gentlest click, as though she's trying not to disturb the world.
Adrian stands there in stunned stillness.
His hallway feels different now.
Not empty.
Not cold.
Not entirely hopeless.
He whispers a shaky, "Thank you," hoping the thin walls might carry his gratitude across.
Mary stands with her back pressed against the closed door, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She squeezes her eyes shut, letting the quiet settle around her like a protective blanket.
Her mind races.
You shouldn't have talked. You shouldn't have looked at him. What if he thinks you pity him? What if he asks questions? What if you get attached? What if you mess it up like everything else?
She hugs herself tightly.
But beneath all the noise in her head, something gentler exists too, a small, trembling sense of rightness.
Because last night, she heard him breaking.
And this morning, she gave him something small to hold onto.
For Mary, offering kindness is both terrifying and instinctive like stepping onto a frozen lake and praying it won't crack.
Still…
She's glad she did it.
Even if it scares her half to death.
Adrian returns inside, the sandwich in hand. He sits at his table the same place those unsent letters still lie and unwraps the food. The smell makes his stomach clench painfully.
He takes a small bite.
Just one.
But it's enough to make his eyes sting again.
Enough to remind him that he's still here.
Enough to remind him someone cared.
Someone saw him drowning and did the smallest, kindest thing.
He looks down at the note again.
Shaky handwriting.
Simple words.
A stranger's compassion.
"M," he murmurs aloud. "Thank you… whoever you are."
For the first time in days, the food doesn't feel heavy.
It feels like a lifeline.
Across the hall, Mary sits on the floor with her back pressed to the door, knees drawn to her chest. She tries to steady her breathing, tries to quiet her mind enough to function.
Her thoughts slip back to him his tired eyes, his lost expression, the quiet way he said nothing and everything at once when he opened that note.
It reminds her too much of herself on her worst days.
She whispers into the empty room, barely audible:
"I hope you eat the rest. I hope today hurts a little less."
She doesn't let herself imagine more.
Doesn't dare.
Not friendship.
Not connection.
Not rescue.
Just a single moment of shared humanity between two people teetering on their own cliffs.
Adrian wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans back in his chair, letting out a slow, shaky breath. Something has shifted inside him not a miracle, not a cure, but a faint, fragile warmth.
A small seed planted in the dark.
He isn't sure what it means yet.
He only knows this:
For a moment just one single moment he didn't feel completely alone.
And Mary, still sitting behind her locked door, feels the same fragile shift. A tiny spark in her otherwise dim world.
Both of them unaware of how deeply their lives will tangle.
How their storms will one day collide.
How their healing will depend on each other in ways neither can see yet.
For now, it is enough that they exist across a single hallway.
Two wounded souls.
Two quiet storms.
Two people who without knowing it just saved each other's lives a little bit.