Wren's flat

The memory surfaces as you’re reaching for the towel—Wren’s memory, fresh from this morning. She left her flat at 8:47 AM, her keys in the canvas tote’s front pocket, shoved under a crumpled receipt. She won’t be back until late. A bookstore meeting, then drinks with Jess.

You drop the towel again. The air is cool on your damp skin.

The tote bag sits on the floor where you dropped it earlier. You kneel, and your dreadlocks brush your shoulders. Your fingers find the pocket, and there they are—three keys on a ring shaped like a cat’s face. Karl, you remember. The cat. The keys are warm from being carried.

You stand. The clothes you peeled off earlier are in a pile by the bed. You pick up the gray tank top first. It’s thin, stretched, smells faintly of patchouli and sweat. You pull it over your head, and the fabric settles against your small breasts, the nipples already stiff. The tank top clings to your ribs, rises when you raise your arms.

The cargo pants are next. You step into them, and they’re loose around your hips, the fabric rough against your thighs. You button them, zip them, and the waistband sits low, just above your pubic mound. You can feel the coarse hair brushing against the pants—you’re not wearing underwear. You never put her panties back on.

The green sweater comes last. It’s heavy, shapeless, the sleeves falling past your wrists. You pull it over your head, and the dreadlocks catch again. You shake them free, and they fall around your face, tickling your cheeks. The sweater smells like coffee and woodsmoke. Wren’s smell.

You walk to the mirror. The reflection is Wren, fully dressed now, the stained sweater hiding her body. But you know what’s underneath. You know the sag of her breasts, the wild bush, the scar on her shin. You adjust the sweater’s collar, pull a stray dreadlock forward. It’s still strange, having hair that moves like this, that frames your face in ropes instead of the forgettable buzz you’ve worn for years.

You finger a dread, twisting it. It’s thick and slightly coarse. You pull it to your nose—patchouli, yes, and something earthy.

The hallway outside your flat is silent. You crack the door, peer out. Empty. The fluorescent lights hum, flickering at the ends of the corridor. You step out, and the door clicks behind you. The air is different out here—colder, smelling of dust and cleaning fluid. You’re barefoot, like she often is.

You walk to the stairwell. Your footsteps echo, soft and tentative. The stairs are concrete, cold against your soles. You descend one floor, to the second. The hallway on this floor is identical to yours, but the doors are different. 2A, 2B, 2C. Wren’s flat is 2A. The one at the end.

You’re halfway down the hall when a door opens.

A woman steps out. She’s short, with straight black hair cut to her jaw, and a round face that holds a flicker of surprise. Asian, maybe Korean. She’s holding a mail envelope, wearing a cardigan over a simple blouse. She stops when she sees you.

“Oh—hi,” she says, her voice soft, uncertain.

You smile. Wren’s smile. “Hey. How’s it going?”

She relaxes slightly. “Good, just checking the mail. You’re home early?”

Your brain fumbles, but Wren’s memories provide. This is Mina. 2B. She works at a dental clinic, keeps to herself. They’ve exchanged maybe ten words since Wren moved in.

“Not really,” you say, leaning against the wall with practiced ease. “Forgot something. Had to run back.”

Mina nods, clutching the envelope. “I saw you leave this morning. You looked busy.”

“Always busy,” you say, and you laugh—Wren’s laugh, throaty and warm. It comes out naturally. The deception thrills you, a current running down your spine. You feel it between your legs, a faint pulse, a gathering dampness. Your thighs press together subtly under the baggy cargo pants.

Mina shifts her weight. “Well, I won’t keep you. Have a good day.”

“You too,” you say, and she smiles, a quick, shy thing, before disappearing back into her flat.

The door closes. You stand there, heart beating faster. Your pussy is wet now, a slick warmth spreading through your crotch. You can feel it against your lips, a gentle reminder of what you’re doing. You’re wearing a woman’s body, using her memories, fooling her neighbors. And Mina—you need to get a picture of her. Soon. Her cardigan, her shy smile, the way she held that envelope. You want to know what she looks like naked.

You walk to 2A. The key slides into the lock smoothly, clicks open.

The door swings inward, and you step into Wren’s flat.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. Incense, old books, cat food. The second is the chaos. Clothes draped over a chair. A stack of novels on the floor, spines cracked. A half-empty mug on the coffee table, a ring of dried coffee inside. The walls are covered in prints—political posters, a faded map of the city, a photo of a woman with sharp features and a confident posture. Sasha. You recognize her from the memories.

The living room is small, cluttered, lived-in. A sagging couch with a blanket thrown over it. A bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks. A cat tree by the window, empty. Karl must be out. You run your hand over the back of the couch, feeling the fabric, the indent where Wren sits every night.

You walk to the bedroom. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, a pillow on the floor. There’s a vibrator on the nightstand, a purple silicone thing, unwashed. You pick it up. It’s cool against your fingers. You press the button, and it hums to life, a low buzz that vibrates up your arm. You turn it off and set it down.

Her dresser is cluttered—jewelry, a comb, a half-burned candle. You open a drawer. Underwear, all cotton, all worn. You slide your hand in, feel the fabric. They’re hers. All of this is hers. And now it’s yours.

Your pussy is throbbing. You press your hand against it through the cargo pants, feel the heat, the dampness spreading. You’re alone in her flat, surrounded by her life, and you’re so turned on you can barely think.

You sit on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. You look around. The posters. The clutter. The faint scent of her shampoo on the pillow.

This is her world, you think. And I’m in it.