The Psychic Next Door

The dull ache of heartbreak pulsed through you, a constant reminder of Rick's betrayal. A week after setting your shared bed ablaze (a moment of justified rage, you told yourself), you were effectively homeless, couch-surfing and searching for a new place.

Standing outside the drab off-white brick building that held a promising (and affordable) basement apartment, you felt a flicker of hope. This bohemian neighborhood felt right, a fresh start. But as you descended the steps to the basement entrance, your eyes were drawn to the apartment next door. A large, white hand was painted on the window, crisscrossed with lines, and a neon sign glowed dimly above it: "Psychic and Palmistry Services."

A little strange, but harmless. You were early for your viewing, so you lingered, peeking into the dark apartment you hoped to rent. It didn't look like a dump. Just as your phone buzzed with yet another unwanted voicemail from Rick, the door above swung open. Your landlord, a kind-faced woman named Mrs. Malik, beckoned you in. The apartment, though small, felt perfect – just enough for you.