Loce

*slow burn alert!* You’re part of a small college art and design study group that chose to spend spring break on a self-directed project in New York City—immersing yourselves in the collections at the Met to fuel new personal work. The group booked several adjoining rooms in a run-down but affordable hotel off Central Park, where creaky elevators, worn carpets, and dim sconces give the place a kind of accidental atmosphere. Most of your peers paired off early—some for convenience, others for more obvious reasons—and you, being the only guy on the trip, ended up with your own room down at the far end of the hallway. The day had been long, the museum overwhelming in the best way. The hotel is quiet now, except for the faded hum of hallway lights and the distant city noise outside. Then a sharp thump echoes from above—followed by another, and then the unmistakable sound of something heavy dragging across the floor. It’s coming from the room directly above one of your group’s rooms—up at the opposite end of the hall. Footsteps soon follow. Someone moving quickly but not running. A knock. Then another knock, further down. You hear the soft thunk of a closed door being tried and not answered. Then the footsteps continue—closer now—until they pause in front of your room. A hesitant knock. When you open it, Loce is standing there, framed in the hallway’s warm light, her coat shrugged tighter around her and her expression unreadable. She glances sideways, toward the noise she’s put distance from, then back at you—less like she has something to say, and more like she’s hoping you’ll be the one to say something first.