The Devil's New Neighbor

The moving truck had been gone for exactly seventeen minutes, and I was already questioning every life choice that had led me to believe that hauling boxes up three flights of stairs was a reasonable Saturday activity.

“Dani.”

“Emi.”

“I think the lamp is broken.”

I set down the box labeled *Kitchen—Fragile (Actually Fragile, Dani)* and turned to find my ten-year-old sister holding up what was unmistakably a lampshade. Just the lampshade. The rest of the lamp was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s the base?”

Emilia’s face scrunched in that particular way she’d inherited from our mother—half apologetic, half defiant. “It’s… in the box. Still. I think.”

“You think.”

“I’m *pretty* sure.”

I pressed my lips together, fighting the smile that wanted to break through. “Emi. The lampshade is not supposed to leave the box without the base. That’s how lamps work. They’re a package deal.”

“Well, maybe this lamp wanted to see the world before it committed.” She held the lampshade up like a crown, parading it down the hallway of our new apartment building. “Maybe it’s a free spirit.”

“That lamp is a Target clearance item, and it cost me fourteen dollars. The only spirit it has is capitalism.”

Emi laughed—that bright, unselfconscious sound that still made my chest ache sometimes, because it sounded so much like Mom’s. She twirled in the middle of the hallway, her dance sneakers squeaking against the floor, the lampshade held above her head like she was in some kind of avant-garde ballet.

I let her have the moment. That was the deal we’d made, quietly, without ever saying it out loud: I would carry the weight, and she would keep spinning.

Apartment 16B was going to be good for us. I could feel it already. The building was old but well-maintained, with high ceilings and hardwood floors that creaked in exactly the right way. Closer to the university, closer to Emi’s school, closer to her dance studio. A fresh start, like I’d promised her.

Like I’d promised myself.

I grabbed another box—*Emi’s Room—Dance Stuff*—and followed her toward our door. The hallway was quiet, the kind of mid-afternoon stillness that made every sound feel amplified. The apartment across from ours, 16A, had its door closed. I hadn’t met the neighbor yet, but the super had mentioned he was a lawyer. Kept to himself. Which was fine by me. After the last year, I was perfectly happy with neighbors who minded their own business.

“Dani, can we get pizza tonight?”

“We have food at home.”

“We have *unpacked* food at home. That’s different.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“I’m *negotiating*.”

I was about to fire back when Emi, still mid-twirl, misjudged the distance between herself and the door of 16A. The lampshade went flying. She went stumbling. And the box of dance stuff—the one I’d just set down to unlock our door—went crashing against the floor directly outside our neighbor’s apartment.

The sound was catastrophic.

Glass broke. Metal clattered. Something that was definitely not supposed to make that noise made that noise.

Emi froze.

I closed my eyes.

“That,” I said slowly, “was my soldering kit.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

The door of 16A opened before I could assess the damage.

Three people stood in the doorway, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

The first one out was a woman with blonde hair and sharp, assessing eyes that softened when they landed on Emi. She had the look of someone who’d seen a lot of chaos and learned to meet it with humor rather than panic. “Well,” she said, “that was dramatic.”

Behind her, a heavyset man with a kind face and a tie that was already loosened despite it being barely two in the afternoon let out a low whistle. “Please tell me that wasn’t something important.”

“My soldering kit,” I said, still staring at the scattered pieces. “And probably my dignity.”

The third person hadn’t stepped fully into the hallway yet. He was still half-hidden in the shadow of the doorway, but I could see enough to register the dark glasses, the way his head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something no one else could hear.

*Oh.*

The blind lawyer. The super had mentioned that too.

“Emilia,” I said, keeping my voice even, “are you okay?”

She nodded, still frozen. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“It’s okay. We’ll fix it.” I crouched down, starting to gather the pieces. The soldering iron was probably fine. The multimeter, less so. I’d have to check the—

“Let me help.”

The blonde woman was already kneeling beside me, picking up a small screwdriver that had rolled under the edge of their door. “I’m Karen, by the way. This disaster is Foggy.” She gestured with her chin toward the man, who was now attempting to entertain Emi by making increasingly ridiculous faces.

“I’m Danielle,” I said. “The disaster is my sister.”

“She’s not a disaster,” Foggy said, straightening up. “She’s clearly a performer. That was a very artistic fall. Eight out of ten. Deducted points for the landing.”

Emi giggled. The tension in my shoulders loosened slightly.

“And that’s Matt,” Karen said, nodding toward the man still standing in the doorway. “He’s our boss. Or our friend. Depends on the day.”

Matt Murdock stepped forward, and I noticed the way he moved—careful, deliberate, but not uncertain. Like he knew exactly where everything was, even without seeing it. He stopped a few feet from me, his head angled in my direction.

“I’m sorry about the noise,” I said, standing up. “We’re moving in. I should have warned you.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” His voice was lower than I expected. Warm. “Moving is hard enough without worrying about your neighbors.”

There was something about the way he said it—like he meant it, like he genuinely understood—that made me pause.

“I’m Danielle,” I said again, because apparently I’d forgotten I’d already introduced myself. “And this is Emilia”

“The dancer,” Matt said.

Emi’s eyes went wide. “How did you know?”

“The shoes.” He smiled, just slightly. “They have a specific sound. And you move like someone who’s spent a lot of time in a studio.”

Emi looked at me, her expression pure wonder. I felt it too, that small spark of recognition. This man noticed things. Even without his sight, he noticed things.

“I’m going to be a professional,” Emi said. “When I grow up.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Matt said. And there it was again—that warmth, that sincerity. Like he saw her, really saw her, in a way most adults didn’t bother to.