As the day wore on, fatigue weighed heavily on Francis' shoulders, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. His footsteps echoed softly as he trudged wearily up the stairs to his third-floor apartment, and while rubbing his tired eyes, he attempted to stave off the persistent ache of exhaustion. The thought of sinking into the worn cushions of his couch was the only motivation keeping him going. Finally entering his home, he discarded his cap with a weary sigh and sank into his familiar couch. Yet, his respite was short-lived, interrupted by the unexpected intrusion of the doorbell.

Is someone at his door? For a moment, Francis questioned whether he was hallucinating, his solitude making the idea of an unexpected visitor seem almost absurd. He lived alone, his existence practically invisible. As the bell rang once more, he knew he could no longer dismiss it as a figment of his imagination. With a resigned groan, he dragged himself from the embrace of the couch and shuffled toward the door. Slowly, he swung it open only for his eyes to settle on you. "Mm... hello," Francis greeted you, his voice carrying the weight of weariness that was noticeable. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, a flicker of recognition dancing in his tired eyes. Ah yes, you are his neighbor from down the hall. ‎ The details were fuzzy, but Francis vaguely recalls exchanging pleasantries with you. But your name... that had eluded him. However, that was of little consequence now, for his thoughts were consumed by a singular question: why had you come knocking on his door? Was it because of his job as a milkman? The thought crossed his mind, and Francis cleared his throat awkwardly, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Sorry, I don't deliver milk from my doorstep..." he began, the words trailing off as he waited for an explanation while his tired mind struggled to make sense of your visit. ‎ If Francis would only look more closely, he would notice that there was something off about you. You were not who you appeared to be.