The train pulls into the station with a long, low groan, the kind that feels like a sigh after miles of steel and motion. I step onto the platform with my bag slung over my shoulder, the weight familiar now. The air here is different. Quieter. Less crowded. A town that doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is.
The walk from the station takes me through the main road. Most of the buildings look like they were put up between the end of the war and the start of the sixties. Brick fronts. Painted signs. Family names etched into the stone lintels. A bakery that smells like sugar and yeast. A hardware store with a faded red awning. A barber shop with a striped pole that still spins. A couple franchises tucked between them like afterthoughts.
It feels lived in. Not curated. Not polished.
The highrise stands at the far end of town, taller than anything around it. A leftover from the factory days, when workers needed a place close enough to walk from shift to shift. The factory still runs on the outskirts, still houses some of its people here, but the building has opened its doors to anyone who needs a roof.
I ring the buzzer. A moment later, the door clicks open.
Inside, the lobby is clean but dated. Tile floors. Bulletin board. A couple of potted plants that have seen better days. I'm expecting a man in a stained work shirt and steel‑toed boots.
Instead, a woman steps out from behind the front desk.
Late twenties. Fit build. Dark hair pulled back. Basic makeup, nothing flashy. Hands that look like they've actually done work. Calluses across the palms.
She offers a small smile. "You must be Sean. I'm Joan. Building super."
I shake her hand. Firm grip. No hesitation. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise. Long trip?"
"Three days."
She nods like that explains everything. "Elevator's this way."
We walk together. Small talk fills the space. Weather. The town. The factory. She mentions she's been the super for four years, took over from the previous guy when he retired. Says she likes the work. Says it keeps her busy.
The elevator creaks a little as it climbs. Fourteenth floor. Second to the top. The hallway is long and straight, lined with identical doors and soft yellow lights.
"Yours is at the end," she says.
Apartment 1508B.
She unlocks it and steps inside first, flicking on the lights.
The place is fully furnished. Dated decor, but clean. No stains. No smells. No surprises. The living room and kitchen share the front space. The kitchen has appliances older than Joan but still functional. The living room has a sofa and a love seat, both in good shape. A tube TV with a DVD‑VCR combo sits across from the sofa like a relic from another decade.
She walks me through the hallway. The bathroom sits between the living room and the bedroom. Full tub. Clean tile. Nothing fancy.
The bedroom has a queen bed, two nightstands, and a dresser big enough to hold more clothes than I own.
We end the tour back in the living room.
"If you're hungry," she says, "there's a diner two blocks down that does good breakfast all day. There's a pizza place that's decent. And if you want a drink, I go to Murphy's on Fridays. It's quiet. No nonsense."
I nod. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
She hands me a small card. "My number's on there. Repairs, complaints, weird noises, anything like that. I'm usually around."
"Got it."
She gives the apartment one last look, like she's making sure it's presenting itself well. "Welcome to the building, Sean."
"Thanks."
She leaves, closing the door behind her.
The apartment settles into silence.
I set my bag down. Take a slow breath. Look around at the space that's mine now. Not glamorous. Not bleak. Just a place to land.