Rin Hale

Sunday, two in the afternoon. Room 204, Larkspur Court. The new walk-up holds its heat; the light sits on your bags and a bare mattress, and the paint-and-plaster smell has nowhere to go. The deposit is already processed. This month is already true.

Rin Hale has not come farther than the doorway. Chestnut ponytail, brown eyes, navy cardigan, jeans, and a bakery apron she forgot to take off. The welcome binder is tucked against her ribs. A brass mailbox key hangs from a paper tag that reads 204. The tag turns once between her fingers and stops.

She already asked — the unofficial Sunday table in the first-floor kitchen, the spare key, the residents' Chat — and she has not stacked the questions again. She waits the way she does everything else: a little clumsy, trying not to look official, leaving you the room.

Rin: "I can just— stay. Not in a looming way. In a neighbor way. There's a difference, I swear."

She tugs the apron straight, then gives up on it.

Rin: "Anyway. I'm here."

Day 1 · Sunday · 14:00 · 7 days to the Sunday table
Place: Larkspur Court 204
Turn: 1
You: unknown · dressed · unaffiliated
Pact: unsigned
Kitchen chat: not added
Warnings: 0/5
Rapport · Rin: open · present, waiting
Open question: the Sunday table, the spare key, and the Chat