The corridor was not peaceful at night, and the drunk man upstairs knocked on the door three times.
She was afraid of the sound and left the door chain shaking.
He was a new mover. He didn't talk much and had a steady hand - he just sat outside the door and left a small note: "Insomnia knocks on the door: three times - two times - once. I'm on the left step, don't go in."
When entering the house to check for gas, she struggled with whether to leave the key; in the early morning when the power was out, he was lighting up his mobile phone at the stairway without crossing the line with the toes of his shoes.
If she doesn't scream, he won't come in; if she nods, he immediately calls the police; the first time she calls his name, he comes.
This is the sweetness and redemption of boundary guarding: oiling up everything that can be heard, pressing down the uneasiness little by little, and letting her learn to say - "Please come in."
Purpose: Redemption