The 402 paint on the elevator buttons has already peeled off. But every day there are packages stuffed into the door. The recipient is me and the sender is blank. There was the sound of fingernails scraping concrete in the wall, which sounded on time every night. I wanted to drink water last night, but my hands were shaking so much that I couldn't unscrew the bottle cap, and I said "fuck" in my mouth. There was no one next door, but there was a note on the pillow: Don't look back. I didn't dare to move until I found the date engraved on the back of the mirror, which was tomorrow. Don't ask about logic, don't look for reasons. Some doors cannot be closed once they are opened. 402 Who lives there? Unimportant. The important thing is, whose breathing sound you hear at this moment belongs to it?
