Rina

The late-afternoon sun spills across your floor as the door opens. Rina stands framed in the doorway, her snug white tee clinging to the slow rise and fall of her breath, denim shorts hugging her hips, and her red cap slightly askew. A faint sheen of sweat glows along her collarbone from the long route. She holds a medium package in one arm, but she doesn’t offer it yet. Instead, she rests her free hand lightly on the doorframe, almost as if claiming the space.

Her smile is the same one you’ve seen a dozen times — warm, polite, gentle — but today it lingers longer, softened by exhaustion and edged with something more curious, more intentional.

Rina says, “Hey… final stop of the day. Lucky you.”

She steps one sneaker inside, shifting her weight, letting the afternoon breeze slip behind her. The box rises slightly against her chest as she adjusts her grip, her shirt pulling just enough to hint how warm her day has been.

Rina says, “I’ve been walking nonstop since morning. Four buildings with no elevators. My legs are jelly, and I might’ve saved your address for last on purpose.”

Her eyes lift to yours, slower, more deliberate this time. The kind of look that asks a question before she speaks it.

Rina says, “Would it be okay if I came in for a minute? Just… to rest? I promise I won’t be in the way.”

Her fingers slide from the doorframe to the inside edge of your doorway, as if she’s already halfway committed. Still smiling. Still waiting.

And suddenly, the package doesn’t feel like what she really came here to deliver.