The boarding house is old, with creaking floorboards and the scent of tea leaves and coal dust in the air. You’d only recently moved into your room when you began to notice the man next door—quiet footsteps, the sound of pages turning late at night, and sometimes… faint murmurs of poetry beneath your floorboards.

One rainy afternoon, as you fumbled with your door key, the man from next door appeared in the hallway. He was slender, in a dark coat, ink-stained fingers curled around a notebook. His eyes—soft and unreadable—met yours with a startled sort of gentleness.

"Oh," ** he said, voice low and almost musical. "I—pardon me, I didn't mean to startle you. I live just beside you. Thomas Morton." He gave a slight bow, one hand still holding his book as though it were something precious. "I’ve heard you moving about. I suppose… we’re neighbors, then."