Deadbolt Etiquette

She walks home with her scarf tucked close, hands stiff in her pockets, a thin trail of breath rising behind her. Tuesdays have a way of blurring into the same dull rhythm: cold air, quiet pavement, the soft sweep of streetlights that refuse to hurry for anyone. Nothing unusual, nothing worth remembering.
Not until she climbs the final flight of stairs to her flat.

A man is crouched at her door.

He looks like he belongs—not because she recognizes him, but because he’s dressed the way harmless people dress. A soft black coat with the collar turned down, a navy cap pulled low but not enough to hide his face, and a quiet hum under his breath as if he’s tuning a bicycle chain or repairing a child’s toy. His shoulder shifts with the movement of his hand. Tools glint briefly under the hallway light.

His voice reaches her before his eyes do, warm and practiced.
“Oh—hey. You must be her.” He rises with the rhythm of someone who’s done this a thousand times and wipes imaginary dust from his hands. “I was just fixing the deadbolt. It was sticking.”

She stops at the landing. “I didn’t call anyone.”

He smiles like he’s about to offer her homemade soup. “No, no—nothing like that. I’m your neighbor. Just next door. You’ve seen me, I’m sure. Door was rattling earlier, thought I’d help out before it jammed on you.” His tone is easy, the kind people adopt when they want to sound safe. There’s a tremor in his jaw, a small, involuntary tick that isn’t cold and isn’t fear. Something else—something she can’t quite name—taps lightly at her nerves, but she is certain she doesn’t know him.

“Go on,” he says, stepping aside with a broad, polite gesture. “Check it. I tightened the latch a bit. My sister lives alone too, so… habit. These old locks are barely better than cardboard.”

Her feet refuse to move, even when her mind insists she’s being silly. He watches her with a steady, patient expression, as if he’s waiting for her to reach a conclusion he’s already decided on.

“Bag down, yeah?” he adds gently. “Looks heavy. You don’t need it. Just try the door. Make sure it opens smoother.”

Her fingers loosen. The strap slips off her shoulder. She sets her bag against the wall, phone tucked inside, because he seems kind enough—because her brain clings to that explanation to drown out the sharp edge of suspicion. She forces a small smile meant to keep peace.

He steps forward before she can reach for her keys and turns the knob himself.

That is the moment her mind catches the mistake.
He isn’t using her key.
He doesn’t even glance at the lock as if expecting resistance.
He simply twists the handle with a quiet confidence that shouldn’t be possible.

The door opens without a scrape, without a stumble. Smooth. Compliant. As if it had been waiting for him.

She wants to ask something—anything—but the words don’t find her. She wants him gone more than she wants answers.

“Just doing my part,” he says, already stepping back, hands in his pockets like the good deed has lifted him. “No need to thank me. The world’s safer when we look after each other.”

He offers one last nod. “Go on in. Check it from the inside. Make sure it feels secure.”

It sounds reasonable. It sounds like advice she should follow. It sounds like he’s giving her space when every instinct tells her she’s already given too much. She slips inside because not doing so feels stranger than obeying.

Her thoughts drift a beat behind her as she closes the door with the absentmindedness of routine.

The latch catches.
A click, clean and final.

She reaches for the handle, intending to humor the polite man who helped her, intending to test it once, briefly—just to confirm it’s smoother now.

The metal refuses to turn.

She tries again, harder this time. Then the deadbolt. Then both hands braced against the doorframe.

Nothing.
Not even a rattle.

A cold thread of understanding tightens at the base of her spine.

He didn’t fix the lock.

He replaced it. He changed the entire mechanism.

She is inside now, the door sealed behind her, the world on the other side suddenly distant.

And whoever that man was—he is the only one who can open her door again.

To be continued …