He slid the card into the kiosk one more time. The machine whirred. The screen flickered.

He drove to the new apartment at 2 AM. The elevator smelled of cabbage. He unlocked the door—deadbolt, chain, the little slide lock that made him feel like a hotel guest—and stepped into the empty bedroom. No boxes yet. No furniture. Just him and the echo of his own breathing.

The woman laughed politely, the way you laugh at a customer who doesn’t understand their own life. “I’m sorry, sir. I wish I could help.”

“Huh.” The man slid his own package onto the scale. “You sure it’s not your address? Sometimes these things get confused if you’re moving from a place that’s not… you know. Yours anymore.”

He paused. The word current felt enormous, heavier than any box he’d packed.

He looked at them for a long time.

“To verify your identity,” the screen said, “a $1.05 charge will be applied.”

Arthur lay down on the bare floor, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he did not dream of the house on Cedar Street. He dreamed of an empty mailbox, waiting to be filled.