A stiff gust of wind hits you as you open your front door. The grease and dirt of human hands have discolored the paint around the pair of locks and doorknob. You add to this history as you enter, closing the door and locking it behind you. To your right is a third-hand coat rack and a small, shallow hand-me-down coffee table with a thrifted, ceramic hand-made bowl hiding the initials of a stranger on the bottom. You hang your coat and bag on the rack, place your keys and wallet in the bowl on the table, and slide your shoes off by the door.
You take a moment to quiet your breathing and feel the pulse of the old rental, stripped of her personality and covered with a pallid grey paint. The fairylights hung by you and your roommates dance off the lifeless hue of the wall. You listen to the creak of her bones, her central heating soft hum beckoning you deeper into her lungs, her heart, her stomach. Where will you rest while the specters of past tenants flit around the corner of your eye?