Chapter 3

The living room was dark. I felt along the wall for the switch and flicked it on. Nothing in the living room.

I hopped to the kitchen and flicked the light on. Nothing.

I hopped to the bathroom and flicked the light on. Nothing.

I hopped to the second bedroom and flicked the light on. Nothing.

I stood in the doorway of the spare room and stared at the bare floor. I almost wanted to laugh. Fine. Real mature.

I hopped back toward the master bedroom to just give up and lie down when I caught a glimpse of the balcony.

The balcony door was open. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting the floor in a cool silver glow.

Right in the center of the balcony, my other slipper sat perfectly straight.

I stared at that shoe for a solid five seconds.

Then I heard laughter. Quiet and clipped, but unmistakably laughter.

A man's laugh, coming from some direction in the air. The sound of someone failing to hold it in and letting a snicker slip out.

"Having fun?" I asked the air.

The laughter stopped.

I hopped to the balcony, put on the slipper, and then went to the bathroom to do my business.

I didn't bother with the bathroom light and just went in with the glow from the living room.

The toilet seat was up. I was positive I had put it down. Whatever. Let him leave it up. I didn't care.

I finished, flushed, and washed my hands. I glanced at myself in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, my sleep clothes were wrinkled, and my dark circles looked like smudged eyeliner.

"Goodnight," I said.

I wasn't sure who I was talking to.

I went back to the bedroom, turned off the light, and lay down.

In the darkness, I heard the breathing start up again. Same spot, same rhythm.

"Childish," I said.

The breathing paused for a beat, then resumed.

I rolled over and turned my back in that direction. I fell asleep fast.

The next morning, when I woke up, the first thing I did was look down at my slippers.

They were lined up neatly side by side, right next to the bed.

I put them on, washed up, made some instant noodles, and ate breakfast.

After washing my bowl, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door to leave for work.

I stopped at the doorway.

I turned back, dug through my bag, and pulled out a sticky note. I tore one off and wrote a line with a pen. Then I slapped it right onto the shoe cabinet, where it was impossible to miss.

[Since you're free, do the laundry. Hand-wash the bras and underwear. Thanks.]

I glanced at the note, shut the door, and left.

Work was nothing special. I showed apartments, made phone calls, posted listings, got stood up by clients, and got nagged by the manager about my numbers.

I had been an agent for five months and was used to this life.

Every day, I said the same things and met the same types of people. Colleagues came and went at the office. I was the only woman who had stuck around.

Not because I was talented, but because I had nowhere else to go.

At nine that night, I got back to the complex.

My legs felt like jelly climbing the stairs. Sixth floor, two trips a day. It was a killer workout.

I unlocked the door, turned on the light, and changed my shoes.

I looked down at the sticky note. It was still there, but now there was a new line written underneath.

[It's done.]

The handwriting was elegant, the kind of beautiful penmanship that looked almost printed. Every stroke was steady, every curve deliberate.

I stared at that line for a long moment, then ran to the balcony.

My clothes hung neatly from the drying rack.

T-shirts, jeans, a jacket, socks. All washed, all hung up to dry.

In a small basin in the corner of the balcony, my bras and underwear were soaking in water. They had been washed already and were spotless, still dripping.

I stood there, suddenly at a loss for words.

I walked back to the shoe cabinet and tore off a fresh sticky note. I wrote: [Thanks.]

I hesitated for a second, then added: [Nice handwriting.]

I stuck it on, washed up, changed into my sleep clothes, and went to bed.

The breathing was still there, right in its usual spot.

"The laundry was done really well," I said.

The breathing didn't shift, but I had a feeling it was listening.

"I'm off work tomorrow. Is there anything you want me to pick up?"

The words just slipped out. I felt stupid the moment I said them. What would a ghost even eat?

The next morning, four more words had appeared below my note.

[No need. Thank you.]

I stared at those words for a while. I was starting to think this ghost had some pretty decent manners.

After that, sticky notes became our regular way of communicating.

At first it was just about basic household stuff.

I wrote: [I'm working late tonight. Don't wait up for dinner.

He replied: [Wasn't waiting. Already ate on my own]