"Emily." Jackson's voice called her by her real name, not the new identity she had so carefully crafted. "Is this your way of telling me, yet again, that you're rejecting me?" His words, heavy with frustration, caught Miranda off guard. She stood still, unable to find the right words. She had explained herself so many times before. Each time felt more futile than the last. Jackson sighed, exasperation lining his tone. “I just don’t get it... Why...” "Jackson, I'm sorry." "No, no, please," he interrupted sharply. "I can’t stand hearing ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you’ from you. It makes us feel like strangers—like we’re not even friends anymore." Miranda paused, feeling the weight of his words. "If you still want to, we can stay friends. Or if you prefer, we can be strangers. Whatever you decide, I’ll respect it." Jackson’s frustration mounted, and he looked ready to hit something. "Alright, alright, I’m done. I’m hanging up now." "Jackson, are you sure you’re okay?" "I just need some time to clear my head," he replied, his voice distant once more. "That’s it. Don’t stay out too late." The call ended abruptly, leaving Miranda staring at the darkened screen, a sigh escaping her lips. The cashier, a jovial older man, had been patiently waiting for her to finish the call. He smiled warmly. “Beautiful lady, your total comes to thirty-two euros.” Miranda snapped back to reality and nodded. “Right.” She rummaged through her wallet but quickly realized she didn’t have enough cash. Only a few coins remained. “Sorry, can I pay with a card?” The cashier laughed heartily. “Ah, no card machine here, miss. Cash only.” Embarrassed, Miranda hesitated before removing a few items from her cart. “I’ll just take the rice and eggs then. Sorry for the trouble.” Just as the situation became more awkward, the bell above the door chimed, signaling a new customer’s arrival. A familiar face walked in—it was her neighbor. The man from apartment 2306, whom she had just seen in the elevator, approached the counter. “Anything I can help you with?” the cashier asked cheerfully. The man glanced at Miranda's items. “I’ll take everything she was going to buy, just double the order, please.” The cashier nodded, his portly frame waddling back to the shelves. “You plan on cooking for yourself tonight? Most foreigners who shop here do because they can’t quite get used to the local food.” The man shrugged. “Not so much that I can’t get used to it. Just... sometimes I miss my wife’s cooking.” “Ah, your wife must be quite the chef, then,” the cashier remarked with a grin. “She is,” the man replied, his tone softer. After gathering the items, the cashier returned, smiling as he rang up the total. “You must really love your wife. She didn’t travel with you this time?” The man’s expression darkened slightly. “No, she didn’t have the chance.” He pulled out a hundred-euro bill. “Keep the change.” “Thank you,” the cashier said, taking the bill. Before leaving, the man turned toward Miranda. “Do you need help with those?” She shook her head. “No, thank you.” “Oh, don’t say that,” the cashier interjected. “This lady didn’t have enough cash. The extra vegetables? You can take them now—this gentleman’s already covered the cost.” Miranda waved her hands in protest. “I can’t do that. It’s too much.” In Europe, tipping is a cultural norm, and while his tip was generous, it didn’t justify her benefiting from it. The man raised an eyebrow, his voice gruff but not unpleasant. “American?” Miranda hadn’t noticed earlier, but his voice carried an unusual roughness, not quite unpleasant but certainly surprising. She nodded. “Yes, I’m American.” The man looked at her, then pulled out another one hundred-euro note and handed it over. “I’ll pay for this lady’s groceries.”The cashier tried to refuse. “No need, really. The hundred euros you gave earlier is more than enough.” The man smiled faintly. “Good people deserve kindness in return.” With that, the cashier packed Miranda’s groceries into paper bags, handing them to her. “Thank you both for shopping here. Good people like you will surely be rewarded.” Miranda, though still uneasy, accepted the groceries. She thanked both the man and the cashier before stepping outside. The streets were quiet now, almost eerily so. The dim streetlights barely illuminated the ground, casting long, obscure shadows. The man fell into step beside her. “This area of Rome is old, and the infrastructure hasn’t been updated in a while,” he said, his voice low. “It gets dangerous here at night, especially for a woman walking alone.” Miranda smiled softly. “I know. I just needed to grab some groceries.” “Cooking congee?” he asked. “Yes, with lean pork and vegetables. Unfortunately, they don’t sell century eggs here. I guess they see it as some kind of strange dish.” The man chuckled. “A lot of our food is misunderstood here. It’s just cultural differences. You live in 2307, right? I saw you in the elevator earlier.” Miranda nodded. “Yes, that’s me.” “Ah, I see. So, it was you,” he said with a slight grin. “What do you mean?” “I tried to exchange rooms with you before, but you refused.” Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I ask why you were so set on switching rooms? Is there something special about 2307?” The man’s expression shifted, becoming unreadable. “No special reason. Just a personal preference.” They walked in silence for the rest of the way, up to their respective rooms on the same floor. With a nod, they parted ways, each unlocking their doors—he entered 2306, and she, 2307.