No Fourth Floor

You worked late again. You’re the last person in the building to come home.

The tower went up in 2009, and most of the tenants are Chinese. The elevator buttons count 1, 2, 3, then jump to 5. Above 12, the next button is 15. You live in 1502. The day you signed the lease, your landlady, Mrs. Chan, laughed: “All the unlucky numbers are gone. You’ll sleep better.”

You press 15 and lean against the stainless steel wall, watching the floor numbers climb.

1. 2. 3.

The display flickers black. The elevator stops.

When the doors open, the light outside is evening light, warm and yellow, slanting in from the window at the end of the hall. The air smells like something you know by heart: the lotus root and pork rib soup your mom simmers all afternoon.

But in Vancouver, it’s 3:04 in the morning.

A young man is standing in the middle of the hallway in a faded old hoodie. He’s holding a key. The tag on it reads 1502.

That’s your door.