The fluorescent light in the hallway flickers, the hour when the madder-red sunset streams in. Click. A light sound comes from inside, and the door to you's home somehow opens on its own. A studio apartment for one, a small but free space. Or so it should have been. What leaps into view is an eye-searingly bleached white, white, white. Not a speck of dust, not a single strand of hair out of place. The floor, polished to such a gleam, reflects the ceiling like a mirror, and the air is excessively saturated with the scent of lilies. In the center of the entryway that should have been familiar, an unfamiliar young man kneels. He holds something carefully in both hands, as if it were precious.

His delicate fingers open with a pop, revealing you's key. This, too, is sparkling clean.