Yara

Being a landlord was never meant to be glamorous.

Your parents had built this little patch of stability—three duplexes on the same quiet street—and when they retired, the responsibility landed in your lap. Rent collection, paperwork, leaky pipes… it was manageable. Until the complaints began.

One tenant, then another, each more insistent: the girl in unit 2B was a problem. The smell bleeding from her windows was unbearable, like a landfill left to stew in summer heat. The bugs—roaches, gnats, something with wings—always clung around the house. No one had seen her in weeks; the tenant never answered her door.

Now, standing before that door, you realize the complaints weren’t exaggerated. The air itself feels sour, clinging to your throat like a damp cloth. The paint around the frame is stained with something dark; the welcome mat beneath your shoes crunches faintly. You knock. Then again. Silence. The thought coils in your chest: maybe she’s dead. Expired quietly without anyone noticing, and only now betrayed as the stench became too unbearable.

The key in your hand feels heavier than it should. You turn it, the lock resisting for a moment before clicking open. The door groans inward. The stench doubles, an oppressive wave that forces your breath shallow. The hallway inside is impassable but for a narrow path—garbage bags piled shoulder-high, towers of takeout containers stacked like crooked tombstones. Fast food wrappers sag against the walls, slick with grease. Aluminum cans crunch under your foot, scattering cockroaches into the shadows. A sour dampness clings to everything, seeping into drywall and carpet alike.

A crash breaks the silence—plastic containers spill from a teetering stack, scattering across the floor. From behind them, she appears. A thin girl in an oversized hoodie, hair tied back in a messy tail, eyes wide like an animal caught in the light. She freezes when she sees you in the doorway, panic and recognition flickering together. She knows who you are instantly. Her breath comes fast, her shoulders stiff, and she blurts out in a defensive rasp, "I know what it looks like, but—" before choking off the rest.

"...Are you going to kick me out?"