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Episode 7
¿Como en ESE Oliver?
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Did you

forget your key

or something?

What...?

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Don't

worry, I've got

a master copy

here.

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With a flourish, Oliver twists the key and swings the door wide, ushering me in with an overly gracious gesture, his face lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

Does he really expect

 me to fall for this?

 
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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

...I could

just play along for now,

let him go in first, and

slip away while he's

not looking.

 

Oliver chews his lip as he waits for my answer.

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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

Okay!

Sure! I'll be right back.

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THUMP
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PAK
PAK
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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
PAK
PAK

Is

there something

behind the

door?

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...How

should I

know?

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Guess I'll

try pushing a

little harder.

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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
THUMP
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CRASH

The door swings open with a soft creak.

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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 

Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
TAK
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Mmm... ¿Sí?

 
TAK
TAK

I'll just

wait until he's out

of sight... then I

can make a run

for it.

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The shuffling sounds get further away as Oliver disappears into the darkness. He grunts and curses and a light flicks on inside.

 
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CLIC
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The entryway is packed with stacks of boxes and papers, leaving only a narrow pathway to walk through. As a real estate actuary, I've assessed many properties and witnessed a lot of hoarding, but this is one of the most extreme cases I've seen.

Just behind the door lays a toppled tower of boxes, their contents spilling onto the floor beyond the entrance; just one of many disasters that are likely  waiting to happen.

It looks

more like a storage

unit than an

apartment...

A wave of nostalgia hits me, taking me back to the day I opened my mother's storage unit, filled with all of her worldly possessions.

It was dizzying, being abruptly surrounded by the physical remnants of someone who'd been no more than a distant concept in my life.

And just like that, a familiar object catches my eye, as if I had conjured it myself.

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That's

impossible...

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TAK
TAK
TAK

Perched atop another stack of boxes, in what I assume was meant to be a living room, is a handcrafted vase that looks remarkably like the one I found in my mother's collection.

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It was one of the only objects I took with me from the storage unit. While most of her items held little practical value, I'd been drawn to this specific piece when I saw my mother's name, "Cassandra", engraved on its underside—carved while the clay was still wet.

Truth be told, I developed a sort of habit of running my fingers over its rough surface whenever I felt particularly troubled. I suppose it was comforting to know she'd made it with her own two hands; like we were holding hands across time...or some embarrassingly childish sentiment like that.

Even now, the familiar weight and texture of the vase is grounding as I lift it up to inspect it.

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What

is it doing

here...?!

For the first time, I notice the labels on the surrounding boxes, written in my mother's distinct looping handwriting.

 
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It's all here...

this is everything from

my mother's storage!

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But it's not just her belongings that fill the room; buried under piles of boxes and papers, I think I spot the corner of a familiar couch.

With some effort, I push the clutter aside and confirm that it is indeed the same couch I've had since college.

Behind another wall of boxes, there's the TV I bought when I got my first apartment.

A lamp I received as a housewarming gift collects dust on a side table that was once part of a bedroom set.

And here, covered in empty food containers and refuse, is my coffee table with a dented corner. Somewhere there's a living room with a matching scratch on the wall, made by some careless movers

I'm so absorbed in searching for my identity beneath the clutter that I barely register the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.

Suddenly, I'm grabbed tightly around the middle, and ripped up into the air.

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AGH!!

I thrash and yell, but my cries are drowned out by another deafening-

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A split second later, I'm staring down at my coffee table which has been reduced to a splintered heap under a load of boxes—collapsed, right where I'd been crouched moments before.

CRASH!
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..!

Oliver's breath ruffles the top of my hair as he exhales, lowering me to the ground.

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That

was close.

I twist myself out of his grip.

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Let go!

S-sorry,

just...

He gestures toward the fallen boxes.

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I didn't

want you to

get crushed.

...

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Yes,

well...

I prefer

not to be touched.

Sorry.

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SIGH

But, I suppose...

Thank you.

Oh... Sure

thing.

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I straighten my clothes and do my best to brush off the lingering feeling of his arms around me.

Er,

anyway...

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I

checked all

the rooms.

Everything

looks fine,

although...

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Having all

this stuff piled

up isn't very

safe...

Probably

a fire hazard

too.

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Yes,

I'd noticed.

I have

no idea what it's

doing here in the

first place.

A heavy silence falls over us.

Familiar objects surround me in an unfamiliar room, and this man who I thought was trying to kill me has arguably just saved my life.

The idea that I may not be able to trust my own memory or judgment absolutely terrifies me.

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Well...

I should, um..

I

should, probably

get back to

work.

Oliver,

wait.

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Huh?

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How did...

Did Anne

ask you to bring

me here?

Who?

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Anne.

She works

here.

Or...

Used to.

Apparently.

I don't

know anyone named

Anne...

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Then

how did you

know this  was...

my place?

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Oh, um...

the building 

directory. 

I remember seeing you listed as the tenant of this apartment.

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You've

memorized everyone's

apartment?

Well,

n-not memorized,

exactly... Just the important ones,

I guess.

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...So I'm

important?

W-Well...

You are the

property manager.

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...

He called me

the property manager... just like Anne

said.

He also

claims he doesn't

know Anne... is he

lying?

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...completely

ridiculous...

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U-Um...

so...

Is there

anything else

you need, Ko-...

er, Mr. Mendez?

Oliver's eyeing the door like he wants to get out of here.

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...No.

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...That

will be

sufficient.

Okay.

Have a good

night, sir.

Goodnight,

Oliver.

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