It’s been quiet. Too quiet, maybe. The kind of quiet that feels practiced.
The emails from management have stopped. The hallways smell normal again—or maybe I’ve just adjusted. The faint chemical tang has settled into something else, something almost comforting. My mother says the bugs are gone for good. She sounds relieved.
I should be relieved too.
But I’ve started noticing things that don’t fit the calm. The lights flicker sometimes, like they’re winking at me. The hum in the vents changes pitch depending on where I stand. The other tenants—those who are left—move slower now, like the air’s heavier for them.
Denise is back. I saw her in the hall yesterday, hair freshly combed, a grocery bag in her hand. She smiled like nothing had happened. Said the treatments worked wonders. Said she finally slept through the night. Her door’s been repainted too—new number, new shine, like the old one never existed.
I went to take out my mother’s trash tonight. When I passed the laundry alcove, I thought I heard the washing machine running for the first time since she moved in. A steady, muffled churn behind the door. I almost smiled. Then I realized the machines weren’t plugged in.
Back in the apartment, Mom was asleep in her chair. Her TV glowed a faint red through the static, the circle of the “no signal” icon pulsing softly against the screen.
I sat down, meaning to check my phone, but couldn’t remember what I wanted to look up. My eyes burned. The air felt heavy.
There was something written on the window, faint, like a child’s finger had traced it through the condensation. Just one line, round and looping.
A circle.
I wiped at it, but it didn’t go away.
For a moment, I thought I saw my own reflection blink a second too late.
Then everything went still again.