It was just after 8 a.m. on the first Saturday of the month. Soft sunlight filtered through the dusty windows of the old brownstone on Emerson Avenue. Coffee mugs steamed in tired hands, the hallway floors creaked under slippers. Life was slow here—humble. People knew each other by name, even if just in passing.
Mrs. Doreen Wyatt, Unit 2B, stood at her door clutching an envelope. Her hands trembled as she licked the flap closed. The rent was late—just three days. Social Security had been held up again, and she’d borrowed what she could. Every dollar counted.
She exhaled, aging lungs wheezing slightly, then slid the envelope under the office door on the ground floor.
Behind her, a tenant couple nodded as they shuffled by. No one judged. Everyone, it seemed, was always either between paydays or negotiating something tighter than margarine on toast.
Until today.
That’s when Gerald Bryce, the landlord, stepped through the front entrance in his mirror-polished shoes and leather briefcase. He was whistling—off key, always—when he spotted Mrs. Wyatt creeping back up the stairs.
“Doreen.” His voice stabbed the morning silence. “Rent’s late again?”
She flinched. “Only by a few days, Gerald. Check’s coming Monday.”
Bryce chuckled, loudly. “You always have a story, don’t you? Maybe next time try budgeting instead of bingo.”