The Shifting Number Next Door

The wall plaster peeled off in large chunks like a building with a skin condition, revealing the older, grayish-yellow surface beneath.

A persistent musty smell hung in the air, mingling with dust and an indescribable sweet yet metallic odor that reminded one of both rust and rotting fruit.

Ethan Lucas dragged the last art supply box into room 402, leaned his back against the cold security door, and let out a long, silent sigh.

Finally, he had left that cramped, expensive "studio" where he could have been evicted by the landlord at any moment.

This place, Number 7 Locust Shade Lane, though as old and decrepit as a person on their deathbed, had the advantage of being cheap.

Cheap enough to support his dream of being a "freelance illustrator," which in reality meant living hand to mouth.

He looked around. The living room was small with poor lighting, its only source of light coming from a narrow window facing the air shaft.

The wall was covered with dark brown water stains and mold spots, twisted in shape, resembling some kind of abstract dark artwork. Ethan Lucas's professional habit kicked in, and he unconsciously took out the sketchbook and charcoal pencil he carried with him, beginning to outline a mold spot in the corner that resembled a human face.

Just as he had made a few strokes, a light, rhythmic knocking sound came from the door.

Knock, knock-knock.

Ethan paused, his brows slightly furrowed. He had just moved in, who could be looking for him?

Through the peephole—a blurry circular hole with cracks around its edges—he saw an elderly man with graying hair and a hunched posture standing outside. The old man wore a faded navy blue polyester Zhongshan suit and held an old aluminum lunch box in his hands.

Ethan hesitated for a moment, then opened the door.

"Young man, just moved in, huh?" The elderly man's face was filled with a kind smile, the wrinkles around his eyes deep, "I'm Thomas Chambers from 401 across the hall. In this building, it's just our two units at the top, so we're neighbors now."

He spoke with a slight local accent, his voice hoarse but still rather loud and clear.

"Hello, Mr. Chambers." Ethan Lucas nodded, his voice somewhat dry. He wasn't good at dealing with strangers, especially this kind of sudden friendliness.

"Here, homemade chive dumplings, still hot, have a taste."

Mr. Chambers pushed the food container into Ethan's hands without waiting for a response, "This building, it's old, has many problems. The hallway light's been broken for half a year with no one fixing it. Be careful on the steps when you go out at night, don't trip."

The container felt heavy, the warmth seeping through the thin aluminum.

A rich aroma of chives and eggs wafted out, somewhat diluting the musty smell in the apartment.

"Thank you." Ethan Lucas expressed his gratitude somewhat awkwardly.

"No need to be polite! A nearby neighbor is better than a distant relative!" Mr. Chambers waved his hand dismissively and rambled on for a few more sentences, "On this floor it's just the two of us households, nice and quiet. Mr. Lewis who runs the small shop downstairs is a decent fellow too, though he does like to drink and can be a bit abrasive when speaking... Oh, and make sure to lock your doors and windows at night. Around here... well, it's never wrong to be cautious."

He left his sentence unfinished, merely making a vague reference, with a barely perceptible flash of vigilance in his cloudy eyes, before quickly returning to his smile: "Alright then, I won't keep you from your unpacking. Eat while it's hot!"

Watching Mr. Chambers shuffle back to apartment 401 across the hall with his hunched back, slowly closing that equally old deep brown security door with peeling paint, Ethan Lucas finally closed his own door, leaned against it, and let out a long sigh.

The neighbor's enthusiasm left him feeling somewhat awkward, yet the warm lunchbox in his hands brought a strange sense of comfort.

He looked down at the lunch box, the aluminum lid was slightly deformed around the edges, as if it had been forcibly pried open many times. As if possessed, he lifted the lid.

More than a dozen plump, white dumplings were squeezed together, steaming hot. He picked one up and took a bite.

The pungency of chives mixed with the fragrance of eggs spread in his mouth, but in the next second, his teeth hit something hard and sharp.

"Tss—" Ethan Lucas hissed in pain, spitting it out to see a small, sharp-edged, grayish-white ceramic fragment mixed in with the filling.

He stared at the fragment, then looked at the tightly closed door of room 401 across from him. Mr. Chambers' words "chop it finer next time" echoed in his ears, carrying an indescribable sense of eeriness.

He silently put the lunch box aside, having lost his appetite. Turning back to the living room, his gaze once again fell on the mold stain he had traced earlier.

He picked up his sketchbook and continued drawing in the dim light.

As he drew, he couldn't help feeling that the outline of the mold stain, especially the shadow extending below it, looked exactly like... black threads entangled around something.