Mary Woods arrives on a gray Tuesday afternoon, just two days after the blackout.
The hallway lights flicker as she follows the landlord up the narrow staircase, her hands tucked deep into her sleeves. She moves with the cautious posture of someone trying to make herself smaller, trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
Her hood stays up even indoors, shielding most of her face. Her eyes remain low, watching her own feet so she doesn't have to meet the landlord's gaze. She hates moments like these new leases, paperwork, signatures because they force her into the kind of interaction that always leaves her hands shaking afterward.
"Apartment 2C," the landlord says, a ring of keys jingling. "Small, but quiet. Should be good for someone like you."
Someone like you.
He doesn't know what he means by that. But she does.
Someone who avoids attention.
Someone who doesn't want company.
Someone who looks like she's been carrying too much for too long.
She signs the lease with quick, tight motions, hoping he won't notice the tremor in her fingers. He's polite enough not to comment. Or maybe he doesn't care. She prefers it that way.
The delivery man arrives minutes later with her boxes books, clothes, a few plants she hopes she won't kill. As he wheels them inside, Mary stands in the corner of her new living room, hugging her elbows, trying not to flinch at every loud sound.
To others, she appears shy.
Quiet.
Withdrawn.
But this is the version of herself she learned to build long ago the version that keeps people from asking questions.
Questions are dangerous.
She avoids them at all costs.
After the landlord and delivery man leave, Mary closes the door and presses her back against it. Her breath escapes her in a long, shaky exhale.
She's alone.
Finally.
The apartment smells like dust and old paint. The walls are thin she can hear a TV from downstairs and footsteps from the hallway. It's a little too echoey, a little too empty, but she prefers this over the chaos she left behind. Her old apartment was filled with voices neighbors screaming, slamming doors, her own thoughts bouncing off the walls until she felt like she was living inside a pressure cooker.
This place is quieter.
Too quiet.
But she can manage quiet.
She moves through the rooms, pulling back blinds, checking locks twice sometimes three times just to reassure herself that no one can get in. Her mind is rarely kind to her; it spins scenarios rapidly, images of danger or failure or loss. She combats them with rituals she doesn't talk about.
Lock the door.
Check the stove.
Close the blinds.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Smile.
Pretend.
She stands in front of the dusty mirror and tests the expression she will need tomorrow if she encounters any neighbors.
Smile.
Not too wide.
Hold it.
Relax your shoulders.
Eyes forward.
Don't look afraid.
Don't look broken.
Don't let anyone see the cracks.
Her therapist once called it masking.
Mary calls it survival.
She practices until her cheeks ache, then drops the expression like a heavy weight. Without the mask, she looks years older. Tired in ways sleep can't fix.
Rain begins that evening, tapping at the windows like impatient fingers. The sky darkens unnaturally fast, sinking the world into a purple-gray haze. Mary wraps herself in an oversized sweater and sits on her mattress-on-the-floor, surrounded by unpacked boxes like cardboard sentries.
The rain grows louder.
Heavier.
Harsher.
Thunder rolls across the sky, shaking the old window frames. The lights flicker. Mary tenses at every boom, but storms don't scare her the way other things do.
Storms are honest.
Loud.
Predictable.
They say exactly what they are.
Humans are much more frightening.
Still, storms unsettle her body in ways she can't control. A knot forms in her stomach, the familiar sense of impending wrongness she gets whenever something in her environment shifts too quickly.
She lights a candle, trying to ground herself with warm light and the smell of lavender wax. Her breathing steadies.
At least until she hears something else
not wind, not thunder.
A sound coming from somewhere beyond her wall.
A voice.
She hears it faintly, her name yet unknown to him, his pain unmistakable.
Adrian's voice.
It's muffled, carried through the paper-thin walls, distorted by storm and distance. But she hears the breaking in it the exhaustion, the desperation, the way it catches like he's holding back something sharp.
"I can't do this… I can't keep going like this…"
Her entire body stiffens.
She knows that tone.
Knows that depth of resignation.
Knows the fragile edge hidden beneath it.
Because she has spoken in that voice before.
Not aloud, but inside herself.
In her darkest hours.
She closes her book and stands slowly, feet padding across the carpet until she reaches the wall she shares with him. She presses her palm against it, gently, as though she might feel the rhythm of his words through the plaster.
Her throat tightens.
Someone else here is drowning.
Someone else is breaking.
Someone else is carrying a storm just as violent as hers.
Her breath becomes uneven, fear and empathy tangled in her chest. She's afraid of what she's hearing not because of him, but because the sound stirs memories she keeps locked away:
Nights lying on her bathroom floor.
Nights hugging herself to stay alive.
Nights praying for silence in her own mind.
She swallows hard.
The loneliness in Adrian's voice hits her like a blow, a familiar ache tugging at the deepest part of her where her own isolation still lives.
She whispers into the wall, knowing he won't hear:
"You're not the only one."
But the words feel fragile, almost childish, like a wish she can't grant.
Mary steps back from the wall, heart pounding with a strange mix of courage and terror. Her first instinct is to go to him. Knock on his door. Ask if he's okay.
But she doesn't move.
Her mind blocks her path.
You'll scare him.
You'll embarrass yourself.
He'll think you're crazy.
You can't help anyone. You can't even help yourself.
Her heart and mind argue back and forth, louder than the thunder outside.
She wraps her arms around her stomach, grounding herself, trying not to let panic take over.
But something is different tonight.
She heard sincerity in that man's voice a rawness she doesn't hear often in the real world, where people speak in polite façades and empty reassurances.
Adrian didn't sound like he was seeking attention.
He sounded like someone who had finally run out of places to hide.
Mary knows how that feels.
Knows it too well.
So she promises herself she will check on him tomorrow.
But promises are dangerous.
Her mental illness often turns her into a liar not by choice, but by paralysis. Even simple tasks become mountains she can't climb.
Still… she makes the promise quietly.
"I'll try," she whispers to no one.
And for Mary, trying is monumental effort.
She tries to distract herself with unpacking, but the words echo in her head over and over:
"I can't keep going like this…"
She imagines what he might look like.
What he might be carrying.
What he might be hiding behind his own mask.
Her curiosity mixes with dread.
She wonders if he's crying.
If he's pacing.
If he's curled up on the floor the way she's been on nights she wouldn't admit to anyone.
A dangerous thought flickers:
What if he does something to himself?
Her stomach twists violently, and she sits down abruptly, the candlelight trembling with her.
No.
No, she can't think like that.
She presses both hands to her forehead.
Her breathing stutters.
Her chest tightens.
She's spiraling.
Over someone she hasn't even met.
This is what her therapist warned her about Mary feels too deeply for others, even strangers. She absorbs their pain like a sponge, drowning in it before she can offer any help.
She forces herself to ground.
She touches the carpet.
Counts her breaths.
Names five things in the room.
It helps.
But only a little.
The storm rumbles overhead, shaking the windowpanes like a warning. She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her forehead on them.
"I'll check on him tomorrow," she repeats softly.
Her voice sounds small.
But determined.
When the storm grows worse, Mary blows out the candle and crawls beneath her blanket. The thunder feels too close now, vibrating up her spine. Her fingers twitch an old habit from childhood, comfort through repetition.
Tap thumb to finger.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Repeat.
Each cycle steadies her, but not enough to erase the anxiety coiled tightly inside her like a trapped animal.
What scares her most isn't the storm.
Isn't Adrian's voice.
Isn't the loneliness echoing through the hallway.
It's what she recognizes in him.
She recognizes the edge.
The quiet desperation.
The fragile breaking point.
She fears it because she's been there.
She fears it because she knows how easy it is to fall.
And she fears that if she gets too close
If she tries to help him
If she lets someone in
She might fall again herself.
But she also fears something else.
If she does nothing,
if she stays silent
then she becomes part of the world that lets people fall alone.
That thought terrifies her more than the rest.
Mary gets up before dawn.
The storm has passed, leaving the hallway smelling of damp concrete and old wood. The air is cool, serene, deceptively calm like a world pretending it wasn't screaming the night before.
She stands at her door, hand hovering over the lock.
She wants to knock on Adrian's door.
She wants to make sure he made it through the night.
Her hand trembles.
You can't do this.
You're not strong enough.
He'll reject you. He'll see the cracks in you.
But another voice one she doesn't hear often pushes quietly against the fear.
Someone needs help.
And you know how to recognize the storm in someone else.
She takes a breath.
And another.
Her fingers brush the doorknob.
And slowly, almost painfully, she turns it.
She takes one step out into the hallway.
And whispering to the empty air, to herself more than anyone.
"Today… I won't be afraid."
It's not a promise.
Promises break.
It's a hope.
And sometimes, a hope is enough to start everything.