When I stepped into the lift of our block, a woman was already inside, clutching the keys to my flat.
At first, I thought I must have made some sort of mistakeperhaps I was confused and it was all a matter of muddled memory. But no, the keyring was unmistakable: a tiny blue heart, the one my sister Grace had given me years ago.
The woman looked to be about forty, had short brown hair, and carried a sensible handbag slung over her shoulder. She stood as if riding the lift was the most ordinary thing in the world.
The lift began its ascent, rumbling softly, but my heart thudded like a dropped book.
Excuse me, I ventured. Those keys… where did you get them?
She looked at me intently, then glanced at the keys, then back at me with slow, surreal deliberation, her eyes wide as if seeing me for the first time in a dream.
And who are you? she asked, her question landing like an icy slap.
I live in flat twelve, I managed, feeling the world shift beneath my feet.
She froze, lips pursed, before murmuring, Thats strange.
Why?
Because so do I.
The lift stopped at the sixth floor, but neither of us moved. The air felt thick and sticky, as if we were underwater.
Ive lived here for four years, I said, my voice echoing.
She gripped the keys firmly, knuckles pale.
I have a tenancy agreement signed just last month.
I stared at her. What kind of agreement?
She rummaged in her handbag and produced a folder. Inside was a crisp copy of a leasethe address was mine. Flat twelve.
Silence pulsed between us, the sort that vibrates like distant thunder.
Who did you get it from? I asked.
The landlord.
Who?
George.
My stomach twisted. George was my cousinhed told me I was simply staying in the flat until he returned from abroad, that it was only a temporary arrangement.
He owns it, I whispered.
She nodded. Yes. He said the flat was vacant.
The lift arrived at our floor, the doors sliding open with a sigh. Neither of us moved for a moment, as if time had paused.
Perhaps theres been some mistake, she said.
Maybe.
We stepped out into the corridor, where flat twelve beckoned, its door silent and inscrutable. The woman raised her keys, and so did I. Both sets, identical, gleamed in the corridors half-light.
A hush filled the space, stranger than anything Id ever felt.
Sometimes, the worst feeling isnt when someone lies to you; its the uncanny moment you realise youve never really known the truth at all.
I looked at her.
Should we open it?
She exhaled, a wistful sigh.
Yes.
Tell me
If you discovered someone had given your home to a stranger, would you try calmly to uncover the truth… or would you burst out on the spot?
