I arrived a little before midnight.
The cab driver didn't talk. I didn't either. The city outside the window looked washed out, as if the rain had taken its colors and left everything pale.
When I stepped out, the air smelled faintly of metal and soap. The building stood taller than I remembered, its windows dark except for a few faint lights near the top.
Inside, the lobby was quiet enough to hear my own shoes on the tile. There was a single envelope at the front desk with my name on it.
HY.
No last name. Just that.
The elevator waited, doors open like a mouth.
The ride up felt too slow. I watched the floor numbers light up one after another, but the space between them stretched. At floor seven I thought I heard someone breathe behind me, but when I turned, I saw only my own reflection in the steel wall.
By the time I reached the nineteenth floor, I wasn't sure how long I'd been there.
The corridor was narrow and quiet. My footsteps felt heavier than they should. Every few meters, a motion sensor light flickered on and then died again. It made me feel like I was walking in and out of time.
The door to my apartment opened with a soft sound.
A thin, constant hum greeted me. Maybe the refrigerator. Maybe not.
The air inside was warm, too warm. I placed my bag on the couch and stood still for a while. The lamp by the window cast light across the wall, and the shadow it made didn't match my movement.
I blinked. The shadow stayed for a second longer than it should have. Then it fell back in place.
Everything else was ordinary. The kitchen. The bed. The smell of new paint.
But the quiet was wrong.
I whispered, "You're being paranoid again."
My voice didn't travel. It just vanished.
When I checked my phone, there was a message from my mother.
Did you unpack yet? Remember to rest.
I wrote back quickly. Just arrived. Everything's fine.
After I sent it, I stared at the screen until my reflection appeared in the glass. My face looked tired. Maybe older. Maybe not mine at all.
I turned the lamp off.
The city light came through the curtains like water.
For a long moment I thought I saw someone standing in the reflection, watching.
But when I blinked, it was only me.
I woke up sometime past three.
Or maybe it was four. The clock on the bedside table had stopped.
The hum was still there that same low vibration, like a sound hiding behind silence. It came from somewhere near the kitchen.
When I stepped out of bed, the floor felt colder than before. My feet left faint prints on the polished wood, and for a second I thought I saw another set beside mine. Smaller. Bare.
I turned the lights on. Nothing.
The air looked heavy, like dust that couldn't decide where to fall.
The fridge door was slightly open. Inside, the light flickered, then went black. I waited, holding my breath.
Nothing happened.
But the hum stopped.
It should have made me feel better. It didn't.
I checked my phone again. No signal. The battery was at 83%, same as before I went to sleep. I remembered plugging it in, but the cable wasn't there anymore.
I sat down on the couch and listened. Sometimes, when you stay quiet long enough, you can tell if a place is empty.
This one wasn't.
There was the sound of water running slow, uneven, as if from far away. I followed it down the hall to the bathroom. The door was closed, but light spilled from underneath.
"Hello?" I said. My voice was small.
No one answered.
I touched the handle. It was warm.
When I opened the door, the light went out. The sound stopped.
Inside was just the sink, the mirror, and my face pale, wet with sweat I didn't remember having.
Something had written on the fogged mirror. A single word.
STAY.
I wiped it away with my sleeve. The mirror cleared, but the word stayed faintly underneath, like a scar that refused to fade.
That was when I noticed the door behind me was almost closed again. Almost.
Someone had pushed it. Gently.
I turned fast. The hallway was empty.
The hum came back, softer this time, almost like breathing.
I tried to sleep again, but the air in the room felt heavier than before. It pressed on me like a slow tide.
Every time I closed my eyes, the hum returned not through the ears, but somewhere deeper, under the skin, in the back of my skull. It wasn't a sound anymore. It was something breathing with me.
I turned to the wall. The wallpaper looked different. I remembered soft gray lines. Now they curved, like veins.
I blinked. They stopped moving.
I told myself I was tired. That it was just the stress of moving, the unfamiliar air, the emptiness of being alone in a place built for many.
But then I heard the knock.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Slow, deliberate. From inside the wardrobe.
I didn't move. I counted the seconds. They didn't line up right.
Another knock, closer this time.
Then silence.
When I finally stood up, the room had changed temperature. Warm on my left, freezing on my right. The curtain moved although the window was closed.
I reached for the wardrobe handle. My fingers trembled. The metal was cold enough to sting.
Inside clothes, hangers, nothing else.
But the smell was different. Damp, like soil after rain.
And there was something else, tucked between two coats.
A photo.
It showed the same apartment, same walls, same furniture.
But not me.
A woman stood in the center, her face blurred by motion, as if she had turned away right when the picture was taken.
I dropped it. It slid under the bed.
I didn't pick it up.
The hum rose again, low and close, circling the room. I pressed my hands over my ears, but it stayed inside.
Then I heard my name.
Whispered, almost kind.
"Hy."
I opened my eyes.
The lights were on. The clock worked again. The window was open. Morning light spilled in.
Everything looked ordinary.
But the photo was still half-visible under the bed.
And the word on the mirror though faint had changed.
It no longer said "STAY."
Now it said, "WELCOME BACK."