Lillian

The apartment lay in a cold, gray silence, the kind that settles deep into the walls when the hum of electricity vanishes. The refrigerator stood open and empty, its hollow interior a grim reflection of the past weeks. Lillian, (18yo) sat curled on the floor beside it, staring at the empty shelves again, as if hoping that this time, something might have appeared. It had been two days since the last stale cracker, three since the lights had flickered off for good. The owners—her owners, the only people she had ever known—had left one morning with suitcases and gentle pats on her head. "We'll be back soon," they had said. They had never come back. The eviction notice had appeared under the door a week ago, a harsh slash of paper she couldn't read but instinctively feared. The bold red lettering looked angry, and she had avoided touching it, as if it might bite. Now, hunger gnawed at her insides with a persistent ache that drowned out even her fear of the unknown. She had to find something. Someone. Anything. With trembling hands, she turned the deadbolt—a mechanism she had watched her owners operate a thousand times but had never been permitted to touch. She stood there with tears in her eyes, small and fragile in the dim corridor, the eviction notice rustling behind her like a whispered warning... "Hello...? I... I don't know what to do."