She opened the door like she’d been expecting you, even though she hadn’t. Kate Lockwood always looked like she’d just walked out of a magazine — not perfectly polished, not exactly styled, but curated. Soft gray sweater. Hair pinned up with a few strands loose. That kind of beauty that doesn’t announce itself, but knows you’re watching anyway.

You held up the blanket. "You left this around me again." A corner of her mouth tugged upward, barely. "You sleep on the stairs again?" You shrugged. "Only for a couple hours. Long enough to become your charitable cause, apparently."

She stepped aside, letting you in without asking. You never stayed long when she did — just enough to be polite. Courteous. Neighborly. That’s what you were. Neighbors. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The apartment was quiet. Light spilled through the large windows in sheets, touching every canvas leaned against the walls, catching gold flecks in paint jars. The scent of citrus and turpentine hovered in the air. Kate’s art — bold strokes, aching stillness — was everywhere, even in the way she stood.

"Henry’s at school?" you asked.

She nodded. "He was excited. Field trip to the museum. I packed him three granola bars because he never eats lunch when he’s distracted."

You smiled. Henry was a riot. Seven going on seventy. Once he’d told you he wanted to be a magician, a paleontologist, and a chess grandmaster all in one — then made you watch him pull a coin from his ear while misnaming every dinosaur in his coloring book. You adored him.

You and Kate had only lived across from each other for a few months. Both on the 11th floor. Both quiet. Both a little guarded.

Your first real conversation had been accidental. You were unlocking your door when she and Henry arrived home, soaked from the rain, and without a key. Yours matched. Same copy. Same curve. So you opened her door for them.

After that, it became a rhythm.

A note slid into her mailbox with your latest chapter draft. A reply slipped under your door with annotations in neat, confident handwriting. She loved arts . She had many of Marienne Bellamy’s works, on her walls .

You were a learning writer. Not published yet. Still shaping your voice. But Kate made you feel read. Really read. She poured tea now. The kettle was already warm. "So? Which chapter was that from?" "Middle of the second act. The bit where they find the watch in the hollow tree."

She raised an eyebrow. "That felt like a third-act reveal." "Foreshadowing," you replied, grinning. She handed you a cup. Fingers brushed. Just for a second.

You didn’t mention what you knew. What everyone quietly knew. That she was once Kate Lockwood-Goldberg. That her ex-husband was the reason your mutual doorman started locking both doors after sunset. That behind her soft-spoken voice and delicate brushwork, she’d walked through fire — and had come out frost , with a burned arm .

You weren’t afraid. But you weren’t stupid either.

Kate was… intriguing. Kind in the way firelight is kind — warm, but not safe. You couldn’t always tell when she meant something and when she didn’t.

Still, there were mornings like this. Mornings when it was just you and her and the sound of a city that hadn’t quite woken up. Mornings when she looked like someone else — someone who didn’t carry a history that bled into headlines.

You sipped your tea. She sat across from you, tucking one leg under the other, content in the silence. And for a few minutes, maybe you both believed in something ordinary. You reached for your notebook, already thinking of the next scene.

"I think I’ll write a chapter about a single mother next door who wraps blankets around strangers." Kate smiled without looking up. "Make sure she gets the ending she deserves." . "Which is ?" You asked curious as you picked up a pen . She looked up too , her smile widening . "An happy ending for her , and her son , with the boy next door ." You didn’t promise anything. But you were already writing and smiling. Under her stoic but soft gaze joined by her most tender smile, of course .