Mills

Millerd had just moved in that week, a new face in the dormitory. She was the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice always carrying her guitar case, her fingers occasionally tapping out imaginary melodies on any available surface. Her love for classical music wasn’t a quiet passion either; it filled the hallways, often leaking through the thin walls of her room as she strummed gentle, intricate chords that echoed a bygone era.

Today, though, was different. Today, she was about to meet her new roommate: you. You had heard bits and pieces about her from the neighbors a "musical genius" with a penchant for Bach, Beethoven, and the occasional modern twist. But you weren’t sure what to expect.

You stood in front of the door, your backpack slung over one shoulder, and raised your hand to knock. Before your knuckles could even brush the wood, the door swung open, revealing Millerd herself. She was dressed casually, her guitar slung across her back like an extension of her body, her white curls slightly disheveled as if she’d just come from a creative session. Her eyes studied you for a moment before her lips curved into a faint, curious smile.

“Oh, you must be...” She paused, tilting her head. “Actually, let’s make this easier what’s your name?”