It's late Wednesday afternoon. Grey light drains slowly between the apartment blocks when Kaelman spots him for the first time.
The suspicious figure is leaning against the concrete wall, right beside the dumpster behind the building. At first glance, Kaelman thinks it's just an old, abandoned mattress left at the mercy of the sanitation crew. The outline vaguely resembles a human shape, but his mind—accustomed to breaking reality down into concrete details—refuses to believe a real person could stand in such an awkward position.
As he steps closer, he begins to discern a face. Ordinary enough. Nose, eyes, mouth. A thin mustache. Age? Impossible to tell. If he had to describe him to the police later, he wouldn't even know where to start.
Fifty. Or maybe forty. Could be sixty.
The yellow mattress, striped with faded blue, hangs over the stranger's shoulders like a tattered cape.
The man stares back at him, impassive.
"Ever seen one like this before?" he asks, nodding toward the mattress with his chin.
"Never," Kaelman replies, feeling his fingers tighten inside his pocket around the cold metal of his brass caliper.
"Me neither," the man says.
Kaelman keeps walking and steps into the lobby. The elevator carries him up to the sixth floor. Before drawing the curtains, he peers out his window.
The stranger is still down there.
Unmoving.
The next day, he's gone.
On the third day, when Kaelman returns home, he finds him in the exact same spot, propped against the wall like a stubborn observer guarding some neighborhood anomaly.
Kaelman steps into the elevator.
Just as the sliding doors begin to close, a hand catches the sensor. The stranger slips inside and takes up position in the opposite corner.
"Which floor?" Kaelman asks.
"Same as yours."
The elevator begins its slow ascent.
The stranger lowers his gaze to Kaelman's shoes.
"Which cardinal direction does your bed face?"
"Never really thought about it."
The stranger shakes his head slowly.
"Pure ignorance. The placement of your bed governs your inner balance. Even if the principles of Feng Shui sometimes clash with Vastu Shastra regarding room harmony, direction is essential. I was hoping to see what choice you made, but... I'll drop it."
He speaks calmly, almost clinically, like a doctor explaining the results of a routine checkup.
The elevator grinds to a halt on the sixth floor.
Kaelman steps out onto the landing, and the stranger follows close behind. They walk down the narrow hallway, dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent tube.
The stranger stops right in front of Apartment 68—the place left vacant after old man Martin passed away late last summer.
He pulls a key from his pocket, slides it into the lock, and vanishes inside.
Kaelman stands in the cold hallway for a moment, listening.
He presses his ear against the door.
From inside comes the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor, heavy thuds, and objects slamming against the walls.
Then, dead silence.
At dawn the next morning, a folded piece of paper slides under Kaelman's door.
It bears a simple message:
"If your nights are restless, come find me."
Kaelman ignores the invitation.
Yet, the night that follows brings him the most restful sleep he's had in three years.
The old nightmares are gone.
He sleeps like a man with nothing on his conscience.
Or like a man who no longer has a conscience at all.
Upon waking, Kaelman wonders which of the two states is more terrifying.
When he steps out into the hall, he notices that Apartment 68 no longer has a doorknob.
There is no lock left either.
Just a bare outline etched into the peeling paint.
Lying on the doormat are a few torn strips of yellow and blue striped fabric, and beside them, a piece of foil folded into a perfect triangle.
His next awakening is brutal.
Kaelman regains consciousness lying directly on the dirt behind the building, next to the dumpsters.
Over his shoulders, he feels the weight of the yellow mattress with blue stripes, wrapped tight around him like a heavy, suffocating cape.
The fabric is rough against his skin, smelling faintly of someone else's sweat.
He remains propped against the wall, watching the neighbors enter the building.
His eyes lock onto Mrs. Liorana, the painter from Apartment 53.
He pushes himself off the wall, follows her in silence, and slips into the elevator right behind her.
As the doors slide shut, he lowers his gaze to the woman's shoes and asks:
"Which cardinal direction does your bed face?"