Chapter 3

He's in the middle of taping together a box for recycling when someone knocks on the door. Not a sharp, official knock—this is softer, three little pulses, like the sound of rain starting on a windshield.

Conrad freezes. For a second, he thinks about ignoring it, just sitting here on the hardwood with the tape stuck to his palm and the box flopped open like a broken mouth. He has no friends here. Nobody even knows his address.

The knock comes again, a little more tentative. He sighs, wipes his hands on his jeans, and stands up, every muscle already bracing for a problem.

He opens the door just wide enough to see who it is. A girl—his age, maybe, but he's always wrong about that. She's holding a plate of something, cookies by the look of it, covered with plastic wrap stretched so tight it fogs up from the heat. She has a loose, off-centre ponytail and a hoodie knotted at the elbows, sleeves rolled so the cuffs flare at her wrists. Her hair is dark with chestnut streaks, parted in a way that makes her look permanently windblown, and she's squinting at him with bright green eyes. He recognizes her from the hallway—one door down, moved in a week before him—but he never caught her name.

"Hi," she says, a little breathless. "Sorry to bother you. You're Conrad, aren't you?" When he just stares at her, the silence stretching between them like taffy, she adds, "I noticed it on one of your boxes the other day," and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

He nods, already nudging the door an inch closer to closed. "Yeah."

"Brilliant. I'm Amelia. Millie, if you prefer. I'm from next door." She gestures down the hall with a flick of her chin, then looks back at the plate. "I made too many cookies. It's a problem, honestly. I can only eat so many before my flatmate judges me, and she's not even here to share the blame, so—" She laughs, a quick exhale, and thrusts the plate forward. "Anyway. Welcome to Palo Alto."

Conrad looks at the plate like it might explode. The cookies are thick, glossy with cinnamon or maybe brown sugar, not the store-bought kind. He hesitates, then takes the plate, careful not to let their fingers brush. The plastic wrap crinkles under his grip.

"Thanks," he says, voice so flat it comes out as a question.

Amelia beams. "Of course! My mum always said you should feed your neighbours before they have a chance to complain about the noise." She peeks into the apartment, not quite stepping over the threshold but close. "I like what you've done with the place. Very... minimalist. Like a serial killer who reads Marie Kondo."

He glances behind him. There's not much to see: a couch, a row of moving boxes, the kitchen counter littered with tape and half-unpacked mugs. "I just moved in," he says.

"So I gathered. You were arguing with the recycling bin out front for a good five minutes earlier. Not judging. Those things are impossible." She grins. "Well, if you need anything, I'm next door. Seriously, anything at all. Spare trash bags, milk, life advice, failed baked goods. I'm here all semester."

He nods, shifting the plate to his left hand so he can wedge the door closer to shut. "Okay."

She lingers, like she wants to ask something else, but instead she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and gives a little wave. "Enjoy the cookies, Conrad."

He nods again, once, then closes the door with a soft click.

Inside, the air still holds a bit of her scent—shampoo, a trace of vanilla, and the sudden punch of cinnamon from the cookies. He sets the plate on the counter and stares at it. The cookies are imperfect circles, some with rough edges, a little too overcooked but not quite burnt on one side. They look homemade in a way that's almost aggressive.

He finds himself annoyed. He didn't ask for cookies. He doesn't even really like cinnamon. The plate sits there, radiating warmth, the plastic wrap gathering little beads of water on the underside.

Conrad peels off the wrap and puts the plate in the fridge, then takes it out again. He sets it on top of the microwave instead, balanced and perfectly centred.

He finishes taping the box and breaks down three more before he lets himself stop. He keeps thinking about the knock, the accent, the look on her face when she said his name. He can't remember the last time someone came to his door with anything that wasn't bad news.

He sits at the edge of the couch, hands wedged between his knees, and stares at the microwave until the apartment is quiet again—so quiet he can hear the hum of the bulb in the fridge.

At some point, he gets up, and he lifts the plastic wrap with two fingers to inspect a cookie. He turns it over, studying the burnt bottom, the uneven edge. Then he takes a bite, quick and mechanical.

The flavour is ridiculous—too much cinnamon, not enough salt. But what gets him is the aftertaste: brown sugar and butter, exactly like the snickerdoodles his mum, Susannah, used to make in the old house, the summer after her first round of chemo. He stands there chewing, throat tight, cookie going to paste behind his teeth.

He puts the rest of the cookie down, hard, on the countertop. He stares at the half-moon bite in its side and feels something sharp at the back of his nose.

The urge to throw the whole plate out is intense. He grabs it, carries it toward the trash, but then hesitates. He can almost hear his mother's voice, Don't waste it, Con. Someone made that for you. Even in his memory, she sounds a little disappointed.

The next morning, Conrad wakes to the growl of the garbage truck. He lies there, arms crossed over his chest, listening to the hydraulic hiss and the thunder of bins slamming. It's still dark, though the edges of the blinds glow like a computer monitor left on all night. He had eaten three of the cookies, then finished a bag of pretzels for dinner. Now his stomach sloshes with sugar and salt.

By seven he's showered and dressed, hair still wet at his collar, shirt damp from the humidity that leaks through the cracked window. He chugs half a glass of water and, on impulse, grabs his keys and the emergency Amex from the junk drawer. His dad's voice is already in his head, as clear as if the man's sitting on the bed, "Don't live like a monk, Con. No girl's gonna stick around when your mattress is on the floor like some sophomore pledge. Get a damn bed frame, maybe even sheets that match. Chuck it on the card—that's what it's there for."

Conrad doesn't buy the bed frame. He circles the aisles of Target once, twice, staring blankly at flat-packed boxes and polyester comforters under too-bright lights. The thought of hauling one of them back, alone, is enough to send him out with nothing but toothpaste and a pack of pens. By the time he gets home the sun's high, pouring through the thin blinds, turning the apartment into a fishbowl.

After the door closes, Conrad stands in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the plate like it's evidence in a crime scene. The cinnamon smell is stronger now, a punch to the nose that makes him want to open all the windows at once.

He stares at the remaining cookies, then picks one up with reluctant fingers. Eat it and be done with it, he thinks, like taking medicine. His teeth break through the surface—a soldier's bite, efficient and joyless.

The taste is too much, too close to something warm he doesn't want. His jaw locks, chewing fast like he can't get it over with soon enough. Three bites in and the sweetness is clawing at him, pressing against a place he's not ready to open.

Conrad drops the half-eaten cookie back onto the plate. His chest feels tight, like the room has tilted in on him.

He covers the plate with a paper towel instead and shoves it to the far corner of the counter. He turns his back on it, wipes the crumbs from his hands, and unpacks a stack of textbooks with a kind of surgical fury.

He builds a fortress of Orgo, Physics, and Bio on the desk, lining up spines so straight it's almost a joke. He sharpens every pencil, tests every pen, lays them out by size. But every time he sits down to read, his eye finds the cookies, or he smells the cinnamon, or he catches himself glancing at the door like he expects Amelia to knock again.

He keeps waiting for the irritation to die down, but it doesn't. If anything, it gets worse. He's not used to people being... nice. Not to him, not since everything happened. It makes his skin itch.

He tries to lose himself in the orientation handbook, but the words blur after a page. The cookies are still there. He can see the burnt edge peeking out from under the paper towel. He looks away, looks back. It's like the plate is growing larger, the scent heavier, the presence refusing to be ignored.

Finally, he gives up. He pulls the curtains, shuts the world out, and lies back on the bare mattress in his room. The guitar is there, propped in the corner—a last-minute grab from Boston, something he never planned to use here.

He picks it up, the neck cold under his palm, and strums a single muted chord. It vibrates in the empty air, soft and imperfect. He tries another, and then another, letting the sound fill the space the way his mom used to fill the house with music when everything else was falling apart.

He plays until his fingers ache, then sets the guitar down and reaches for the plate. He eats a whole cookie this time, no hesitation, letting the taste crash into him and pass through.

The world doesn't end. He sits in the quiet, chewing, the cinnamon heat stuck to his tongue. There's nobody here to see him.

For a minute, the silence almost feels like company again.

One morning the following week, Conrad wakes up to the glassy light of a Stanford September, the sun already angled in like it has something to prove. He moves through the routine—shower, coffee, granola bar eaten over the sink, toothbrush wedged between his teeth while he checks his email. There are orientation reminders and welcome messages from professors who sound way too enthusiastic. He ignores most of them.

He shoulders his backpack, grabs the keys, and steps outside. The air has a bite that's almost east coast, and he breathes it in, trying to clear his head. The lot behind the building is quiet, a few cars sprinkled in crooked lines, and there's a brittle crispness to the way his footsteps echo. He walks with his head down, eyes on the battered Vans, until a voice floats across the asphalt.

"Morning, Conrad!"

He looks up. Amelia is standing just outside their building entrance, balancing a travel mug in one hand and a stack of notebooks in the other. She's dressed for September like it's the dead of winter—long coat, scarf, boots that look like they could kick in a door. Her hair is up today, streaks of auburn catching in the sun. She's talking to someone on her phone, but her eyes are locked on him, and her smile is impossible to misread.

He hesitates, then nods, slowing just enough to be polite but not enough to invite conversation. She ends her call with a quick "Cheers, talk soon!" and waves him over.

He considers pretending he didn't see, but that would be too obvious. Instead, he gives a half-wave and keeps walking. Amelia intercepts him at the sidewalk.

"Off to class already?" she asks, falling into step beside him.

"Yeah. Bio seminar."

"Ambitious. I've got Accounting at eight, which is criminal, but apparently, so is sleeping in as a freshman." She laughs at her own joke, then sips the coffee. "Did you like the cookies?"

He glances at her, then back at the sidewalk. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Didn't poison them, did I?"

He shakes his head. "No. Just... a lot of cinnamon."

She laughs again, bright and full. "That's my mum's fault. She's obsessed with it. Puts it in everything—cakes, tea, even coffee sometimes." She lifts the mug in salute. "If you ever need a sugar rush, come by. I bake when I'm stressed."

He nods. "Okay."

There's a pause. Amelia seems content to walk in silence, but Conrad can feel the words gathering behind her teeth. Sure enough, she fires another shot.

"By the way, you play guitar, right?"

He stops, mid-stride. "What?"

"I mean—I wasn't eavesdropping, promise—but the walls are basically made of paper. I heard you playing the other night. You're good."

Conrad's ears go hot. He hadn't thought about the apartment being so thin, or anyone actually listening. "Sorry," he says, voice flat. "Didn't mean to keep you up."

"Oh, not at all. It was...nice, actually." She seems to sense his discomfort, softening her tone. "Just a few chords. Honestly, I liked it. My dad played, back in London. The Beatles, mostly." She shrugs. "Anyway. Just wanted to say."

He shifts his backpack higher, like he's armouring up. "Cool."

They reach the corner where the sidewalk splits. She's headed left; he's going right. She lingers for a beat, then grins again, not at all fazed by the awkwardness.

"Well, have a good one, Conrad. If you need anything—or want more cinnamon—just knock."

He watches her walk away, coat flaring, stride easy and confident. Another student calls her name from across the parking lot, and she pivots, laughing, the sound floating back toward him like a challenge.

He turns and heads to class, trying not to think about it, but he can't help noticing the way her voice lingers, or the fact that he's already memorized her smile.

That night, back in his apartment, he doesn't pick up the guitar. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, scrolling through lecture notes, pretending not to notice the plate of cookies still on the microwave.

Eventually, he eats another one.

He's not sure what's more unsettling: the taste, or how much less it bothers him this time.