Nothing answered.
Not immediately.
The room remained still, the faint sound of wind brushing against the window the only movement left inside the apartment.
Kenji stayed seated.
Waiting.
Not because he expected a voice.
Because silence itself had started feeling deliberate.
A full minute passed before he finally stood again.
The reflection in the window matched him perfectly this time.
No delay.
No smile.
Just him.
That almost felt worse.
Kenji grabbed the remote from the table and turned the television on—not for entertainment, just noise.
The screen flickered alive.
A weather report.
Rain expected by morning.
He muted it instantly.
The movement of people speaking without sound unsettled him more than silence did.
Kenji glanced toward the digital clock beneath the television.
11:14 PM.
He looked away briefly while setting the remote down.
When he looked back—
11:09 PM.
His expression didn't change.
Didn't need to.
The clock continued normally from there.
11:10.
11:11.
Steady.
Kenji stared at it quietly for several seconds before walking closer.
No malfunction.
No flicker.
Nothing wrong with the display itself.
He unplugged it anyway.
The numbers remained on.
11:12.
A cold sensation crawled lightly beneath his skin.
Not fear.
Recognition again.
Kenji stepped back slowly.
The clock finally died three seconds later.
Too late.
He looked toward the kitchen.
The glass near the sink was gone.
Not shattered.
Gone.
Kenji frowned faintly.
He remembered leaving it there after washing his hands.
Now it sat beside the couch across the room.
Half full.
A thin line of water trailing beneath it.
He walked over carefully and touched the side of the glass.
Cold.
Recently moved.
But he hadn't heard anything.
His apartment wasn't large enough for sound to disappear.
Kenji stood still, eyes lowering toward the floor.
Then he noticed it.
Wet footprints.
Barely visible against the dark wood.
Leading halfway across the room.
Then stopping abruptly.
No return trail.
Nothing after.
As if whoever made them had ceased existing midway through movement.
Kenji followed the prints silently.
Three steps.
Four.
Five.
Gone.
His jaw tightened slightly.
"You're getting careless."
The words came naturally this time.
Too naturally.
Because part of him no longer felt surprised.
That realization disturbed him more than the footprints did.
A soft knock suddenly echoed from the front door.
Kenji's head turned immediately.
Another knock.
Measured.
Not aggressive.
His apartment building almost never got visitors this late.
He approached the door slowly without making sound.
The feeling inside him shifted slightly again.
Awareness.
Close.
Listening.
Kenji stopped beside the door and looked through the peephole.
An elderly woman stood outside in the hallway, hands folded quietly in front of her coat.
Third floor resident.
He'd seen her before but never spoken to her directly.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then the woman spoke softly through the door.
"You're the one from upstairs, right?"
Kenji didn't answer immediately.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
Then:
"Can you stop walking around at night?"
Kenji frowned faintly.
"I just got home."
"No."
Her voice remained calm.
Almost tired.
"The other one."
Silence.
Kenji felt the pressure inside the apartment sharpen instantly.
Not violently.
Attentively.
The woman continued before he could speak.
"I hear him every night now."
Kenji's hand slowly tightened around the edge of the door.
"Who."
Another pause.
Then the woman answered quietly:
"The man that sounds like you."
The hallway suddenly felt colder.
Kenji opened the door halfway.
The woman looked up at him with tired eyes.
No fear.
Just exhaustion.
"He walks slowly," she said. "Back and forth. Every night around two in the morning."
Kenji stared at her silently.
"You're probably not aware you're doing it."
"I'm not."
She studied his face for a moment.
Then something inside her expression changed.
Not realization.
Recognition.
Small.
Subtle.
But enough.
"You really don't know."
Kenji said nothing.
The woman exhaled softly and looked past him into the apartment.
Her eyes stopped near the dark window in the living room.
Then immediately lowered.
"Keep your curtains closed tonight."
A faint tremor entered her voice for the first time.
"When it looks back… don't acknowledge it."
Kenji felt the presence inside the apartment become perfectly still.
The woman stepped backward slowly.
Almost immediately.
As if she'd already stayed too long.
"Wait."
She stopped.
Kenji's voice lowered slightly.
"What exactly did you see?"
The woman hesitated.
For the first time since opening the door,
she looked afraid.
"At first," she whispered, "I thought it was your reflection."
A long silence followed.
Then—
"It smiled at me before you did."