The first night passed without ceremony.
May slept longer than she meant to. When she woke, it took her a few seconds to remember where she was. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar, too clean, too high, without cracks she could trace or stains she could count to ground herself. She blinked slowly, breathing shallow at first, then deeper when the room stayed exactly as it was.
She sat up, heart beating once too hard, then settled again when the quiet held.
Nothing happened.
That, in itself, felt strange.
She spent the morning walking through the apartment as if it might rearrange itself when she was not looking. She drifted into the bedroom first, standing at the foot of the bed and studying it like she had not slept there hours earlier. The sheets were smooth, unwrinkled except where she had been. Too neat. Too intentional.
In the bathroom, she turned on the light and stared at her reflection longer than necessary. Her toiletries had been arranged carefully on the counter, shampoo and soap lined up as if someone had thought about where her hands would reach first. She touched the sink, the mirror, the towel rack. Everything stayed solid beneath her fingers.
The kitchen came next. She opened cabinets just to see what was inside, plates stacked evenly, glasses aligned, utensils resting quietly in their trays. She closed them again, one by one, listening to the soft click each time. In the living area, she ran her hand along the back of the sofa, pressed her palm briefly against the window frame, then stepped away.
Nothing shifted. Nothing reacted.
By afternoon, she realized she was waiting for something to go wrong.
It did not.
The next few days blurred together, not in a dramatic way, but in a soft one. Sleep came when it wanted to. She woke without panic. Ate when she remembered. Forgot sometimes, then laughed quietly at herself for it, the sound strange in a space that belonged only to her.
The silence here was different.
Not heavy. Not sharp.
It sat with her instead of pressing down.
On the third day, she decided she should buy food. The refrigerator was empty except for bottled water and something she did not recognize and decided not to touch. She stood in the kitchen with her phone in hand, staring at the screen like it might judge her choices.
The grocery app took longer than she expected. Too many options. Too many pictures. She added things impulsively, then second guessed every selection. Bread felt safe, so she ordered three loaves without realizing it. Cheese, milk, fruit she might forget to eat. She forgot salt entirely and only noticed after the order had gone through.
When the delivery arrived, she thanked the courier twice.
She put the groceries away carefully, lining them up like proof that she was capable of this. Later, she toasted bread and melted cheese over it, standing by the counter as she ate. It was simple, barely cooked, and slightly uneven. She told herself it was temporary.
That night, she sat on the floor with her back against the couch, phone loose in her hand, scrolling without purpose. Learning the device the way one learns a new room, slowly, repeatedly, touching the same corners again and again. She found herself checking messages she already knew were not there.
There was one from William.
Short. Casual. Just asking if she had settled in.
She stared at it longer than necessary before replying that she had. That she was fine. That everything was quiet.
He replied with a thumbs up and a reminder to call if she needed help navigating the city. She told herself she would. She knew she probably would not.
The days continued.
She began to notice small things. The way sunlight fell across the living room in the afternoon, warm and angled just right. The hum the refrigerator made when it worked too hard. The fact that the apartment smelled faintly of nothing at all. Clean, but lived in just enough that it did not feel staged.
Sometimes she sat on the bed and did nothing.
Sometimes she paced.
Once, she reached for the door, keys already in her hand, then stopped.
Because she did not actually need to leave.
That realization unsettled her more than any noise could have.
On the fifth day, a message arrived.
Formal. Brief.
It confirmed her start date.
It included an address she already recognized from the documents Kai had sent earlier. RCG. Ravencroft Consolidated Group. The name sat on the screen like something heavy but distant.
She read the message once.
Then again.
Then she read it a third time, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves if she gave them enough attention.
Her chest tightened, not with fear exactly, but with awareness. This quiet had an expiration date. She had known that. She had just not wanted to look at it too closely.
She set the phone down and stood, then sat again almost immediately. Her hands shook a little. She pressed them together until they stopped.
That evening, she cooked for the first time. Barely cooking, really, boiling something she did not time properly, burning it slightly, eating it anyway. The taste did not matter. The act did.
Afterward, she cleaned the kitchen twice.
She told herself it was because she was nervous.
It might have been because she was trying to prove she could keep things intact.
That night, sleep came late. Her thoughts circled without landing anywhere. The building. The people she would meet. The things she did not know how to ask. She wondered if she would get lost. She wondered if that would matter.
She wondered, briefly, if Kai would be there on the first day.
The thought made her uncomfortable. She pushed it aside.
On the morning before her start date, she woke early and lay still, listening to the apartment breathe. Pipes. Distant traffic. A door closing somewhere else in the building.
She realized she was not counting days anymore.
That scared her a little.
She got up, showered, and dressed, then sat on the edge of the bed with nothing left to prepare. Her bag was already packed. Notebooks she was not sure she would need. Pens she had lined up carefully.
She checked her phone one more time.
No new messages.
She nodded to herself, as if someone had agreed with her.
Whatever came next would come whether she was ready or not.
For now, this was enough.
Enough quiet.
Enough space.
Enough time to breathe before the world asked her to step forward again.