The lobby cameras sent live feeds to my phone. I tapped in and watched from above as the sliding doors opened and Lydia stepped inside, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked smaller than I remembered, like she had folded into herself.
Next to her stood Bronson, her husband, calm as still water, holding a folder that he kept tapping against his leg.
Behind them, two men in navy shirts stood by a bright white moving truck. They looked half awake, half confused. Their faces said they were not sure if they were part of something legal or something messy, but they were there because they were being paid.
Trent approached them from the security desk. Even without sound, I could tell he was trying to explain protocol. Residents do not lose ownership overnight. Possession is not transferred because someone happens to arrive with a truck.
The movers kept glancing at the folder in Bronson’s hand as if it were some kind of permission slip they were waiting for.
