Lina had not planned to knock. She had noticed the woman — who she knew only as the person in 4B — on three separate occasions over a fortnight: once struggling with bags, once at the post box, once in the lift where they had managed the standard urban exchange of acknowledgements that are not quite words. On the fourth occasion, something had made her stop.
She knocked with a pot of something she had cooked, which is to say she created a reason to knock, which is the honest version of what happened. The woman — her name was Rose — opened the door with the expression of someone who had been expecting something else, or possibly no one at all.
They talked on the doorstep, and then inside, and it became clear fairly quickly that Rose was more alone here than she had intended to be. She had moved for a job that had not yet provided the social structure she had assumed it would. She said this with the restraint of someone who understood that it was a problem she was supposed to be solving herself.
Lina recognised it: the careful way of admitting difficulty without quite asking for anything. She had done it herself, in a different city, years ago. She invited Rose to dinner the following week, and when Rose accepted with more gratitude than the invitation probably warranted, Lina felt the weight of how much that single act of inclusion could mean.
They became friends — not quickly, not easily, but solidly, the way friendships form between adults who have stopped expecting it to happen naturally. Rose told her later that the knock on the door had changed things for her. Lina believed it, and found herself wondering why she had waited four occasions to do it, and what it would have cost her to have done it on the first.