The Dropped Notebook

Three in the morning. That sound woke me again. The man in 303 is going down the stairs. The same heavy bag, the same cap pulled low. Half a year now, same hour, same shape. Every time we pass he lets his eyes drop, and something cold runs down my spine. But tonight something is lying in the corridor. A worn notebook, small enough to hold in one palm. There is a dial lock on the cover, and in the corner, letters rubbed thin by handling — "FOR H." Before I gave it back, I wanted to see one page. Just one.