She stood up so fast her chair rolled into the wall. Her apartment door — the cheap wooden one with the brass number 403 — she stared at it. She had moved into this building in 2021. It was now 2024. She had never questioned why the hallway always smelled the same. Why the neighbor's dog never aged. Why the motorbike traffic below played the same horn rhythm every morning.
She dreamed of shovels.
"The TV is playing static again."