The corridor outside Wei-An's apartment was narrower than he'd remembered the night before. Morning light from a small window at the far end fell in a thin strip across the floor, cutting the hallway into a bright line and two long shadows. On his way out to buy cleaning supplies, he stepped carefully over the bright strip without thinking, as if it were something that might shift under his feet.
He hadn't slept well.
Every time his eyes closed, he felt a tickle of awareness beside his bedroom door-like a breath trying to synchronize with his own. He kept waking up just to check that the door was still closed.
It always was.
But he wasn't convinced it stayed that way all night.
He rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes as he locked his apartment door. The old cylinder clacked twice before settling. He pulled the key free, slid it into his pocket, and turned toward the elevator.
It dinged before he pressed the button.
He hesitated.
The doors slid open to reveal a small elderly woman standing perfectly still inside. Short, hunched slightly at the shoulders, hair tied back in a messy gray bun, a reusable shopping basket hooked over her forearm. Her face had that sharp-edged tiredness of someone who had lived through many versions of the same day.
She squinted at him.
He stepped inside. She did not step out. The elevator didn't move.
"Going down?" he asked, keeping his voice polite.
"No," she said.
Her voice was firm, low, slightly irritated. "I'm waiting for someone."
She wasn't, and they both knew it.
A beat of silence passed.
"You're new," she added without looking at him.
"I moved in yesterday," he replied. "706."
At that, she finally turned her head. Her eyes were dark, unsmiling, but observant-studying him like someone reading a label on a tin to make sure it wasn't spoiled.
"You picked a bad unit," she said.
He blinked. "Sorry?"
She stepped out of the elevator, brushed past him, and walked down the hall with brisk, irritated steps. Her slippers slapped sharply on the linoleum. She didn't look back, but she raised her voice just enough for him to hear:
"Never sleep with your bedroom door open. Not even a little."
Wei-An frowned.
He hadn't told anyone about the door. Not a soul. He considered calling after her, but she turned a corner and disappeared behind a stairwell door before he could form words.
He stood there alone in the corridor, the thin stripe of sunlight warming the floor at his feet. Something about her tone unsettled him far more than the warning itself. She hadn't said it as advice.
She'd said it as a rule.
He spent most of the morning outside, wandering busy streets under the comfort of sunlight and noise. Scooter engines. Vendors shouting about breakfast buns. People bumping into each other as they rushed across crosswalks. Taipei's familiar chaos was almost a relief after the suffocating quiet of the apartment.
By noon, he had everything he needed: cleanser, a mop, a small toolkit for the crooked door, and instant noodles. He carried the bags up the elevator, noting that the fluorescent light inside flickered once every few seconds-as though the building didn't completely want him back.
When he reached his floor, the hallway felt cooler again. He stepped into his apartment and shut the door behind him.
The air inside felt… stale.
Not musty, not rotten.
Just unmoved.
He set his bags down and filled a bucket with soapy water. He wanted to clean the bedroom first-maybe scrubbing the walls would make the place feel lived in. Normal.
As he pushed the bedroom door open, the hinge released a low groan. The door swung with a sluggish reluctance, as though waking from sleep.
The crooked frame still bothered him.
He knelt beside it, inspecting the screws. They weren't loose. In fact, they seemed unusually tight. No wobble. No rust.
He pressed the door closed firmly.
The latch clicked.
He pulled gently.
It stayed closed.
He pulled a little harder.
Still closed.
He turned away for a moment to reach for his tools
click.
The softest, most casual sound.
He froze.
When he looked back at the door, it had opened by a single centimeter.
The same small gap as always.
He stared at that thin line of darkness, his breath held without realizing.
"I closed you," he whispered.
It felt stupid to say out loud, but speaking made the room feel less sealed.
He approached the door slowly and pressed it shut again. This time he leaned his weight into it, testing the frame. It held. For a moment, he thought maybe morning humidity had affected the wood.
He stepped back, took a deep breath, and began wiping the dust from the bedroom walls. Each stroke of the cloth left faint trails on the paint, revealing how little sunlight ever reached the room. As he worked, he kept glancing at the door, half expecting it to shift again.
It didn't.
Not until he turned away to rinse the cloth in the bucket.
click.
The door opened.
Again.
He didn't move for a long moment. A faint haze of frustration and unease washed over him. He set the cloth down, wiped his hands on his shirt, and walked to the door with the deliberate calm of someone pretending not to be shaken.
He pushed the door until it shut.
Held it.
Counted ten slow seconds.
Then released it.
This time, it stayed shut.
He stepped away.
Only two steps.
click.
The latch didn't sound like a mechanical failure.
It sounded like a decision.
Wei-An exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his heartbeat to settle. He squatted down and inspected the bottom of the doorframe-maybe it was uneven? Maybe something about the floor caused the latch to slip?
But no. The frame wasn't warped. The floor wasn't slanted. The latch caught perfectly each time he tested it.
Perfectly when he watched.
Wrong when he didn't.
He sat back against the wall, staring at the door. The apartment was so quiet he could hear the faint tick of dust settling somewhere in the living room. Outside, scooters buzzed occasionally, but even they seemed muffled.
The silence pressed against his ears.
After a moment, something else joined it.
A soft, almost human shift of weight on the other side of the bedroom door.
Not a footstep.
Not quite.
Just pressure.
As if someone were leaning lightly against the door from the outside.
Wei-An swallowed.
His throat felt tight.
He stood slowly and reached for the door. His hand hovered above the doorknob.
Then-
"Ah, you're home."
He flinched so hard he knocked the bucket over. Water sloshed across the floor, spreading in a thin sheet toward the living room. He spun around.
Mrs. Chen stood in the doorway of his apartment.
He hadn't heard her knock.
He hadn't heard the door open.
He hadn't heard anything.
"How-" he started.
"You left your door unlocked," she said, though he was certain he hadn't.
She stepped inside uninvited and looked immediately toward the bedroom. Her eyes hardened.
"Still open?" she muttered to herself.
Wei-An wiped his hands on his pants. "Mrs. Chen… right? What do you mean 'still'?"
She didn't answer.
She walked straight to the bedroom door, shut it firmly, and exhaled through her nose as though bracing herself.
Then she turned to him.
"I'm telling you this because you won't last a week here otherwise," she said. Her voice wasn't harsh anymore-just tired. "Don't sleep with it open. Even by a finger width."
"Why?"
"Because something in this building pays attention."
The hairs on Wei-An's arms rose.
She stepped close enough that he could smell the faint scent of herbal medicated oil on her sleeves.
"And you don't want its attention," she finished.
Then, as abruptly as she arrived, she left-closing his front door behind her.
The apartment fell silent again.
Wei-An stared at the bedroom door.
It remained shut.
But the air around it felt different.
Denser.
Watching.
He backed away from it, one slow step at a time.
And for the first time since he'd moved in, he wondered if the apartment had been waiting for him.
Not the way a home waits for an owner.
But the way a closed mouth waits to open.