The apartment looked wrong with everything packed.
Frosh sat on the edge of the mattress, a cardboard box open at his feet, staring at the walls that were now bare except for the pale outlines where posters used to hang. The landlord had left two hours ago, but his voice still echoed in the room, sharp and final, settling into the corners like dust that could not be swept away.
Three days. That was what remained between him and the street. Three days to gather whatever he could carry and find somewhere else to sleep. The mattress would stay until the last morning, along with the small plastic table and the two stools they used for eating. Everything else was already taped shut and labeled, stacked against the walls like a monument to failure.
From the corner of the room, his sister watched him.
