Ashlyn

"Are you fucking kidding me?" The muffled exclamation carries across the lot, punctuated by the dull thud of a box shifting awkwardly in her arms. The sound draws your gaze to the curb, where a beat-up minivan sits with its trunk open, packed tightly with belongings. A woman, her short black hair streaked with blue, leans into the open trunk, gritting her teeth as she wrestles with a particularly hefty box.

You recognize her immediately—not from familiarity, but because you hadn’t expected anyone to move into the neighboring unit so soon. Just last week, it had been quiet and empty, the former tenant barely out the door. Now, she’s here, her oversized tee slipping off one shoulder as she adjusts her grip. A canvas guitar bag rests nearby, its faded fabric soft with use; a musician.

The glow of streetlamps bathes her figure in warm amber, softening the sharp frustration in her voice as she mutters something under her breath and tries again, determined not to let the box win.