Scared of the past, worried about the present, and dreading the future, this was the case for everyone, but especially for the people living here, and most of all for a man named Daren.
Daren folded the shirt carefully, aligning the seams before pressing it flat. He placed it into the box, adjusted it once more, then lowered the lid and taped it shut. The sound of the tape peeling and snapping felt louder than it should have in the empty room.
That was the last of it.
The room looked wrong without its clutter. Bare walls, bare floor, only a few boxes stacked against the far side like they were waiting to be taken away. He stood there longer than necessary, scanning the space as if he might have forgotten something important. Not an object, those were all accounted for, but something less solid. A mark. A presence.
This had been his room since childhood.
The carpet in the hallway outside was worn thin where he used to run back and forth, socks sliding, feet slapping against the floor. The windowsill by the stairs still carried a small chip in the paint from the time he'd leaned too hard against it, watching the street for his father's return. On the wall near the kitchen door, faint pencil lines remained, half-erased but still visible, marking his height year after year. His mother had always written the date beside them in small, neat handwriting.
He knelt and rested his hand against the floorboards. They were cool under his palm. He remembered lying there with plastic soldiers scattered around him, pushing them into formations, whispering orders under his breath. He remembered laughter drifting in from the kitchen. He remembered his father dropping to his hands and knees, letting Daren climb onto his back, both of them laughing until their ribs hurt.
The house felt full of those moments. As if they had soaked into the walls.
Leaving felt like pulling something loose that had grown into him.
But there was no arguing with the notice. Homes were reassigned. Occupants relocated. The language had been clean and polite, printed on thick paper with an official seal pressed into the corner. A better placement, they'd called it. A necessary adjustment.
An opportunity.
He told himself that word as the low rumble of a truck rolled down the street.
Through the window, he watched movers in identical gray uniforms carry his boxes out of the house. They worked quickly, efficiently, never speaking to one another. He slung his bag over his shoulder and took one last look at the room, then turned away before he could change his mind.
The government car waited at the curb.
It was black, angular, unmarked. The driver didn't acknowledge him as he climbed into the back seat. Daren leaned his forehead against the cold glass and watched his street slide past, houses he recognized, corners he'd turned a thousand times, all of it drifting away with a strange sense of finality.
He hadn't slept much the night before. He'd lay awake listening to the wind move through the eaves, memorizing the sound. He tried to commit the smell of the house to memory, the faint detergent, old fabric, dust warmed by sunlight. He told himself he could carry those things with him.
The car moved smoothly. Too smoothly.
Concrete buildings passed in a blur. Identical shapes. Identical colors. His eyelids grew heavy despite himself. He let them close.
When he opened them again, the car was no longer moving.
"You're here."
The driver's voice was flat.
Daren stepped out.
The house stood alone at the end of a short, clean path. Two stories. White paint dulled by age but unbroken. Every window was sealed behind thick curtains, yet a pale glow leaked around their edges. The path leading to the door was spotless. No leaves. No cracks. No sign of weather or time.
The air smelled faintly of polish.
A man waited at the gate. He wore a gray suit pressed so sharply it looked uncomfortable. His hair was cut close, his expression fixed in a permanent state of mild disapproval. He held a clipboard against his chest with gloved hands.
"You are Daren."
"Yes."
"Follow me then."
He didn't look back.
The front door opened without resistance. Inside, the smell was stronger. Cleaners. Chemicals. Something metallic beneath it.
The hallway was empty. No pictures. No furniture. The floor shone like it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life.
"Kitchens here," the man said, gesturing without slowing. "Bathroom. Living area. Your room upstairs."
Curtains were drawn tight in every room. The light that slipped through them was thin and colorless.
Daren tightened his grip on his bag strap. "Will my roommate be here soon?"
The man stopped.
He turned slowly and looked at Daren with eyes that felt practiced. Evaluating.
"Yes," he said. "You will meet him soon enough."
They returned to the living room.
The man shifted the clipboard under his arm.
"These instructions are not optional," he said. "They are binding."
Daren nodded.
"You do not open doors after nightfall. You do not look outside at night. If you encounter anyone within this house who is not your assigned roommate, you do not acknowledge them. No speech. No gestures."
He stepped closer.
"And at night," he continued, "you do not communicate. Not at all."
Daren forced a small smile. "I know the rules."
The man's expression did not change. "Then you will follow them exactly."
The door closed behind him with a heavy, final sound.
Silence settled in.
Daren climbed the stairs slowly. His room was already prepared. The bed was made with sharp corners, the sheets pulled so tight they didn't crease when he sat down. He placed his bag on the floor and let himself sink into the mattress.
His body felt heavier than it should have.
He told himself that he would rest for a moment. Just a moment.
Sleep took him immediately.