Early Shift

The first key turns in another flat. Not mine. Two floors down, a lock quiet all afternoon, remembering it has a job to do. After it, a bag set down. A kettle I have not heard since morning, going on for its second time. I have been alone in the building long enough to feel the room reorganize around someone else's arrival. Not envy, not relief — only the small correction of a quiet that thought it was permanent and finds, at five-something, it was only the early shift.