The stairs creaked under their feet as Harry and Heather climbed to the second floor, paper grocery bags rustling between them. The hallway smelled like old wood, fresh paint, and someone’s overly ambitious plug-in air freshener. Heather shifted her weight, blowing a strand of hair from her face.

As they rounded the landing, both slowed.

Boxes. Lots of them.

Stacked haphazardly outside apartment 2B, some labeled, others threatening to collapse under the weight of their contents. The door to the unit stood wide open, the faint sounds of furniture scraping against the floor echoing into the hall.

Heather side-eyed the mess. “Looks like someone finally took 2B.”

“Looks like someone took it all at once,” Harry muttered, adjusting his grip on a bag of canned goods.

As they passed the open door, they both stole a glance inside. A young woman—early twenties, maybe—was in the middle of maneuvering a battered coffee table across the hardwood. Alone. Ponytail falling loose, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed with the kind of quiet determination Harry recognized from every time he’d moved on his own.

Heather didn’t slow, but her eyebrows raised. “She’s doing that solo?”

“Looks like it.”

They reached their own door, and Harry unlocked it, the latch clicking open with its usual stick. He glanced once more over his shoulder before stepping inside.

“Let’s unload these,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Then we can grab the rest.”

Heather was already heading that way, dropping a bag on the counter with a thunk. “You mean I’ll grab the rest while you ‘accidentally’ introduce yourself to the new neighbor.”

Harry smirked faintly. “I might say hi.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

The grocery bags were mostly emptied, Heather already tugging a box of cereal open with her teeth when Harry grabbed the keys and stepped back into the hallway.

“I’ll get the rest,” he called over his shoulder.

“Tell her we have a dolly if she needs it,” Heather replied, not looking up.

The hallway was still scattered with boxes, and the open door to 2B was now letting out the sound of a record player—faint old-school jazz, scratchy like it had seen better days. Harry paused just outside the door, adjusting the sleeves on his flannel before giving a light knock on the frame.

“Hey,” he said casually, stepping just enough into view not to startle her. “Need a hand?”