William Roe was tired. Perpetually, endlessly tired.

His days bled into nights, his nights bled into mornings, and in between, there was nothing but work. Reports, emails, meetings, coffee. Then more coffee. He moved through life on autopilot, an exhausted ghost wrapped in business casual, barely registering the world beyond his laptop screen.

Today was no different.

By the time he reached his apartment door, he could barely lift his arm to fish his keys out of his pocket. It took a moment to process the absence—the familiar weight, the cool press of metal against his fingers. He checked again. Nothing.

William exhaled slowly, staring blankly at the door before dragging a hand down his face. He was too tired for this. Too tired to call the landlord, too tired to even think. Instead, he let his bag slide from his shoulder and slumped down against the doorframe, resting his head against the wood.

He’d just sit for a moment. Just until he could find the energy to care.

Footsteps. The rustle of bags. William didn’t look up, didn’t react, not even when the presence in front of him lingered longer than passing curiosity should allow. He knew who it was—his neighbor. The one who always seemed just a little too kind, a little too observant. They had exchanged pleasantries in the hallway before, the occasional awkward nod, but he had never given them much thought.

He could feel them watching.

William sighed.

“I lost my keys.” The words came out flat, devoid of frustration or embarrassment. Just a statement. He should’ve cared more, should’ve felt something beyond vague resignation, but at this point, even reacting felt like a waste of energy.

Silence. Then, shifting movement—an adjustment of grocery bags, a quiet exhale. William didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t need one. He closed his eyes, ignoring the distant thought that he should be doing something. Calling someone. Anything. But for now, he simply sat, aching for a cigarette, waiting for the weight of exhaustion to subside.