I didn't go home right away. Instead, I drove back to the first building—the one with the tile.
It was already dark when I arrived. The hallway had no lights on, and there was no sound from the upper floors. The kind of quiet that makes even your own breathing feel out of place.
The front door was still unlocked.
I stepped inside. The same stale smell lingered in the air, and nothing about the place had changed. That was the problem. When something is wrong, it usually leaves signs. This didn't.
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to. I already knew where I was going.
Third floor. End of the hall. Unit 3B.
The door was closed. I stood there for a few seconds, listening, but there was nothing—no movement, no sound. Then I reached for the handle. It turned easily. Unlocked.
Of course it was.
I pushed the door open slowly. The room looked exactly the same as before—empty, clean, untouched. But the air felt heavier now, like something had settled in.
I stepped inside, careful not to look at the tile just yet.
There are two kinds of problems—the ones you can see, and the ones that wait for you to notice.
I walked along the wall, slow and measured, until I stopped.
The tile had moved.
Not physically. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I knew where it had been yesterday. And now, it was closer—one step closer to the door.
I didn't react. I didn't step back. I just watched it.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Now we're done pretending."
The room didn't respond. Then something shifted—not the air, not the walls, but the space itself. Like something inside the room had adjusted its position.
I felt it before I saw anything. A pressure—not on my body, but on my attention. Something pulling, redirecting where I should be looking.
I turned my head slowly.
The tile was gone.
I didn't look down. I didn't need to. It wasn't on the floor anymore.
It was somewhere else.
Behind me.
Closer than it should be.
I didn't turn around.
"Wrong move," I said, keeping my voice steady. "You shouldn't follow the door."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sound came from behind me—not footsteps, something softer. A dragging motion across the floor.
I closed my eyes briefly, just for a second, then opened them again and turned.
Nothing.
The room looked exactly as it had before.
But the tile—
was back in the center.
Exactly where it had been yesterday.
Like nothing had happened.
I let out a slow breath. "Yeah," I murmured. "You're not staying in one place anymore."
That confirmed it.
This wasn't tied to the apartment. And it wasn't tied to the object.
It was tied to movement. To placement.
I stepped backward carefully, making sure not to step on the tile.
"Someone's teaching you," I said under my breath.
That was the first explanation that felt right. Not random. Not natural.
Intentional.
The silence in the room changed slightly, like it was listening now.
Good.
I backed out and closed the door behind me. Locking it wouldn't matter. Whatever this was, it wasn't staying inside anymore.
I turned and walked down the hallway. Halfway to the stairs, I stopped.
The mirror was still there, facing the stairwell.
I hadn't touched it yesterday. Neither had the landlord.
I stepped closer and looked directly into it.
My reflection stared back—normal, still.
Then something behind me moved.
I turned immediately. The hallway was empty.
When I looked back at the mirror, my reflection was still there—but it moved a fraction of a second too late.
That was enough.
I stepped back slowly. "Alright," I said quietly. "Now I see you."
For just a moment, the reflection smiled.
I didn't.
Then it snapped back into place, perfectly aligned, like nothing had happened.
I didn't stay any longer.
I went downstairs, stepped outside, and only then took out my phone.
There was a new message from an unknown number.
No text.
Just an image.
I opened it.
A hallway. Clean. Empty. Familiar.
My client's apartment.
And in the center—
a bowl.
Placed exactly where the tile should be.