Room 444

I’ve been searching for weeks, scrolling through listings on my phone, calling numbers, showing up at places I could barely afford to even stand inside. Every spot was either too far from campus or asking for rent that made my stomach twist.

The commute is a killer here in Yunhe. Buses packed like sardines or long walks under a blazing sun that never seems to quit. I can’t keep losing hours or money just getting to class.

So when I saw the ad for the apartment on Hengshan Road, I almost did not believe it. Cheap rent. No questions asked. The pictures were rough: chipped walls, faded paint, a flickering hallway light. But it was close, within biking distance to Xinghua University. Close enough that I could maybe save some money and time.

Not perfect. Not even close. But for now, it is the last option I have.

When I met the landlord in the dim lobby, I told him I wanted a room with a balcony. Fresh air was something I needed after months stuck in cramped, stuffy dorms and shared rooms.

He hesitated but nodded, leading me up the cracked staircase. We walked past peeling walls and flickering lights, stopping briefly at a few doors on the lower floors.

“Room 201,” he said, opening a door to a small unit with a window facing the alley. “Quiet neighbors, decent sunlight, but no balcony.”

I shook my head.

Next was Room 312, on the third floor. “Closer to the stairs,” he added quickly, “less noise, better ventilation.”

It looked alright, but still no balcony.

As we reached the fourth floor, he paused outside a door and muttered almost to himself, “Room 444 has a balcony...”

Then he cleared his throat and turned to me. “But, uh, it’s not the best choice. Drafty windows, old plumbing, and the view... well, not great. Most tenants avoid it.”

He shifted uneasily. “I’d recommend 312 or 201. You want comfort, right? Room 444’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

I looked at the door he’d just mentioned. Something about it tugged at me, but he was clearly trying to steer me away.

Then I checked the rent prices again. The rooms he was pushing were at least a hundred yuan more per month than 444. I could tell he wanted me to pick the pricier ones, probably hoping for a quick cash grab. I wasn’t about to fall for that.

I told him, “I’ll take 444.”

He sighed, gave me the keys without another word, and led me back downstairs.

The building itself looked like it had forgotten better days. The rusted gate squealed when I pushed it open, and the stairwell smelled of damp and old smoke. Tenants shuffled past me in silence, eyes fixed on the ground or the walls, like I was not there.

Later, standing outside the door, I saw the number 444 barely hanging on the worn wooden plaque beside it. The paint was faded and chipped, the edges cracked and splintered like no one had bothered to touch it for years. It looked rugged and forgotten, like the room itself had been left to gather dust long before I arrived. In contrast, the other doors along the hall had neat, freshly painted plaques, fixed firmly to their frames, as if cared for by tenants who still had hope.

I hesitated, wondering if I’d made a mistake. But it was too late to turn back now.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was empty. Just me and the worn floorboards and the faint hum of the city outside.