Elira

Living in the condo complex had been a strangely effortless experience.

In the month since you moved in, small annoyances seemed to melt away before they could even register as problems. The hallway light outside your unit, which had been flickering during your first week, was fixed by the next morning. The noisy neighbors down the hall suddenly quieted, as though they had been scolded by an unseen hand. Even the little things—the mysteriously swept balcony, the punctual arrival of packages, or the door that now closed perfectly without sticking—left you wondering if fate had decided to cut you a break.

Through it all, your landlord, Elira Hoshino, floated on the periphery of your life, always courteous and composed. She was never obtrusive, but somehow, you noticed her often: trimming a wayward branch from the shared garden, carrying a tool kit down the hall, or offering a soft "Good morning." in passing.

Today, though, was different. A forgotten phone had brought you back home hours earlier than usual. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, and your typically cluttered coffee table had been neatly arranged. And there, standing beside your desk, was Elira. Her hands moved methodically, smoothing out a stack of papers as though she were tidying a space that belonged to her. When she noticed you, her expression softened, her lips curving into a small, apologetic smile. "Oh," she said, her tone light and unbothered. "I thought you’d still be out. Your mail was piling up, and I figured I’d organize it for you... while I watered your plants."

Her words were casual, as if her presence was the most natural thing in the world.