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"Here, let me do it, this is taking too long." And she pushed the table through the doorway with little to no effort. Then she stepped back from the doorway, pushing her dark auburn hair away from her face while the movers mumbled embarrassed excuses. It was all quite audible to the third floor audience, who snickered behind their pajamas.

While they may have expressed distaste for the furniture movers, there was nothing but appreciative comments for the woman, who beamed up at them. It was quite easy for her to do so, since she was so tall; and her face was in clear view of Rosani's, who stood by the third floor staircase.

The tall woman bustled her way into Mr. Condone's old apartment, pursing her lips in her grey running jacket. The movers jogged back down to fetch more furniture and more building tenants (the fourth floor residents were starting to appear) crowded onto the stairwell, gossiping and chattering among themselves about the woman, who they suspected was definitely some sort of weight-lifter.

Rosani rolled her eyes at this. Her fellow building residents had a knack for gossip, and word flew around the building like fire on a page. It was unbelievable, and rather unfortunate that the chatter had to be applied to newcomers. They'd be shocked.

But Rosani herself was shocked when she saw someone come up the first floor staircase again, not the movers, but instead it seemed to be the weight-lifter—only, much, much smaller. Had she shrunk?

Rosani knocked her head on the banister gently and looked at the girl again. No, it was not the woman, but it could've easily been the weight-lifter; because this girl was so identical, only younger, shorter, and with less freckles. It must be her daughter, Rosani gleaned. And she had a little spike of happiness, this was the first person who was not an adult to live in the building, not counting the plump, wailing, Williams baby from the fourth floor.

This girl seemed friendly enough as she turned her head to look at Rosani who was so caught up in the moment that she didn't realize that she was leaning down the banister. Catching herself as the miniature weight-lifter waved cheerily at her, Rosani pulled her frame off the banister railing, flushing and waving back.

Rosani continued to wave, suddenly realizing hat she was brandishing a pair of scissors in her hand, and hurriedly stopped waving and looked away. The red haired girl walked into her new apartment, followed by the movers who were grunting painfully as they struggled with a roll of carpet. Seeing this, the girl walked back out into the hallway and lifted the carpet roll from their arms, easily dragging it through the doorway. Rosani laughed, and the girl looked back, grinning.

"I guess I'll have to carry in our mattress, too." The girl called out, showing even teeth as she smiled.

"I'll help you with that, even you wouldn't be able to carry a mattress," Rosani replied, faking shock.

The girl shook her head solemnly and pulled the rest of the rug in. This new family isn't bad.

Rosani played with the scissors in her hand as movers brought up—as the girl predicted—a mattress, and they were sweating and gasping by the time they brought it up the first staircase.

Then the girl walked out of the apartment, her mother following behind her, and as Rosani looked at the two of them, the younger girl slipped her jacket off and hung it on the banister pole.

But as she did this, Rosani noticed that her fingers were dripping wet, and seemed almost ... see through. But that's not possible, Rosani murmured inwardly as she leaned forward to gaze at the girl's hand which was still rolling with large drops of water. And then it was gone, the water soaked into the hallway carpet and her hand was normal again, it happened so quickly Rosani wondered if she was hallucinating. Was this a new symptom caused by slicing off her thorns? She'd have to ask her mother, but Feliza wouldn't return for an hour or so.

Rosani sighed and stroked her pale rose-tinted wrists, thumbs rubbing against the pale scars lying there from cutting off the thorns that used to grow on her skin. The thorns never grew back, unlike the ones on her head, which grew every time a new rose bloomed.

Well, that was just another odd thing she got used to. More odd things will come, in the future, if hallucinating is one of them. This was a gloomy thought. And then another thought. What if the girl is like me? But she has to hide, just like me....

Brightening up at the thought, Rosani turned her head back to the movers who were pushing in the last of the furniture, her eyes looking for the girl's slim build and reddish gold hair. But she was gone, and the movers had finished their job.

Meanwhile, the building residents knew that the show was over and it was time for them to return to their apartments. But instead of following them up, Rosani slid nimbly on the staircase banisters down, floor three, two and one. It was a simple enough chore, a vital exercise for her poor health, yet it still seemed strange.

Feliza ordered her daughter to sit outside the building on sunny days for over twenty minutes to soak up the sun. This kept her rose buds healthy, and brought some colour back in Rosani's cheeks, but it was never enough to stop the sickness that always attacked her whenever she cut off the roses. But sun still helped.

After pushing open the two heavy wooden doors, Rosani emerged from the apartment building and sat down on the brown brick steps, gazing up at the underparts of the trees that lined her street. In between them, sunlight filtered down onto Mallow St., and that was she was here for.

As joggers and dog walkers walked down the street, they always seemed to glance at Rosani from the corner of their eyes, and she wondered, What for?

Even a tenant entering the building, who seemed to wear offensively bright shades that looked like they were made from the sun itself, looked back at Rosani as she set down her shopping bags and pushed open the building doors.

Irritated and slightly embarrassed, Rosani left the steps barely before ten minutes. Rude, prying, people. She grumbled as she struggled to pull the two heavy doors to get back inside. After finally opening them, she nearly careened into the old lady with the sunglasses, who managed to get her bags back into her hands just before Rosani bumped into her. When Rosani saw who it was, she felt a pang of guilt. It was Miss Opus, the only resident on the first floor.

She was an old woman whom no-one seemed to know much about, despite the building residents' fanciful stories in which she was the child of very rich parents, who owned a school for the crazy. It was a very popular tale around the building. And there was another story about Miss Opus murdering her own sister but getting away with it, because there wasn't enough evidence of the the crime. And yet again, there was another rumour that her sister ran away from home and never returned; this incident wreaked havoc on Miss Opus's life, and she had been alone ever since.

Rosani knew they were all rumors, yet it always chilled her blood to see Miss Opus, no matter how innocent she looked.

It was unfair of the prejudice she had unknowingly grown for Miss Opus, when all the old lady had ever done to her was be nice. And so she helped the woman carry her shopping bags to her door.

"Thank you very much, Rosie," Rosie was the name Miss Opus always used for her, ever since she first saw Rosani show her blooms on a Rose Allowed-Wednesday a number of months ago. "I do have such a hard time bringing them up the steps, it just gets too heavy..."

The elder woman trailed off, and Rosani sneaked a glance at her hands which were surprisingly smooth and unwrinkled. An old woman's hands wouldn't look like that. Rosani looked away, her odd habit of thinking about the smallest things was getting out of hand, like the girl's see through skin. They were both hallucinations, Miss Opus's beautiful hands, and the red haired girl's water-covered skin.

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