Chapter Text
Est realized the apartment was suspiciously cheap fairly soon after signing the lease.
He was suspicious when the landlord gave him the keys with both hands, looking relieved in a way people usually reserved for successful surgeries and canceled family dinners.
He guessed something was wrong when the old woman from the third floor, who had been watering a plant that looked more dead than alive, stopped mid-pour to stare at him and whisper something under her breath. Or when the elevator shuddered between the first and second floor, lights blinking like it had seen something at the end of the hallway and wanted to resign immediately.
It was actually thirteen minutes after the ink dried on the lease when Est stood alone in the middle of Apartment 4B with one suitcase, two boxes, one duffel bag, and the distinct feeling that the apartment had inhaled when he stepped inside.
That was when he thought, very calmly, very rationally – this place is too cheap. Then he thought again, very calmly, very rationally – probably plumbing issues.
Because, if there was one thing Est had learned in the last month, it was that every disaster came with a practical explanation first.
Case in point: his relationship, which had not fallen apart because the universe was cruel. Oh no – it had fallen apart because his ex had apparently considered loyalty an optional service. His move had not been sudden because he was impulsive. It had been sudden because remaining in the same condo, sleeping on the same bed, breathing the same air where another person’s perfume had clung to the pillows, would have peeled Est’s skin off from the inside.
And this apartment was not cheap because it was cursed. It was cheap because the pipes were old. Maybe. Probably. Most likely.
Est set his suitcase upright and looked around.
Apartment 4B was old in the way certain things became beautiful after surviving too much. The wooden floors were scratched but warm-toned, scuffed into softness by years of footsteps. The walls were covered in faded cream wallpaper with tiny blue flowers, the kind of pattern that would have been charming if it did not peel at one corner near the ceiling like the apartment was lifting an eyebrow.
There was a narrow kitchen with chipped white cabinets, a little square table pushed against the wall, and a window above the sink that looked out toward the alley and the back of another building. The living room was small but bright, with afternoon sunlight falling through tall windows in slanted gold. Dust floated in the air like tiny drifting ghosts.
Est frowned at himself, stopping his line of thought. “No ghosts, please,” he said aloud.
His voice sounded too loud in the room. The apartment said nothing back. Good.
He dragged the first box inside with his foot and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked. Somewhere in the wall, something clicked back. Est stared at the wall.
“Pipes,” he said.
The wall remained rude and mysterious and silent. Est sighed, took off his shoes, and bent down to open the first box.
The first box was labeled KITCHEN, because Est had written that label three weeks ago, back when he thought he would be moving with a plan instead of fleeing with half his belongings and an emotional bruise the shape of another person. Inside were three mugs, two plates, one pan, a packet of instant noodles, and a single glass container full of tea bags.
The mugs were all his.
He knew this because his ex had never once bought a mug in his life but had somehow still managed to claim the best one, the blue ceramic mug with a crooked handle, as “ours.” Est had packed it anyway.
Maybe that was petty. Maybe that was healing. Maybe it was both. A small porcelain funeral for his failed relationship.
He carried the box into the kitchen and began placing things into the cabinets. The hinges creaked when he opened them, each one letting out a long, exhausted complaint.
“Same,” Est muttered.
He put the plates on the bottom shelf. The mugs on the middle shelf. The pan under the sink, because there was nowhere else to put it. When he opened the cabinet above the stove, the door swung wider than he expected and knocked against the wall with a sharp clap.
Est flinched. From somewhere behind him came a faint sound. A laugh.
It was so soft that at first he thought it was the pipes squeaking. A strange little breath of sound, bright and quick, disappearing almost as soon as it arrived.
Est slowly turned around. The living room was empty; sunlight lay across its floor, warm and innocent. A car horn blared outside. Someone below shouted something about parking. Life continued with the aggressive confidence of a world that did not care whether Est was losing his mind.
He rubbed his eyes, mumbling to himself. “Great,” he said. “Now I’m hallucinating because of cabinet trauma.”
He finished unpacking the kitchen. Nothing else laughed.
By six pm, Est had carried everything from the hallway into the apartment. By seven, he had built a small kingdom of boxes in the living room. By eight, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eating instant noodles out of his blue mug because he had not unpacked the bowls and did not have the emotional strength to find them.
The noodles were too salty, but the mug was perfect. Est held it in both hands and leaned back against the couch he had bought secondhand from a man who promised there were “no major stains,” which was not the reassuring statement he seemed to think it was.
His phone buzzed. Est looked at the screen. For one bright, stupid second, his heart reacted before his brain could stop it. Then he saw the name.
Daou.
Est exhaled, shoulders dropping.
Daou had sent fourteen messages in the group chat, most of them stickers, three of them threats, and one voice note that was probably too loud to play in an apartment with thin walls. Est tapped it anyway.
Daou’s voice burst out of the phone.
“Phi Est, if you do not send proof that you ate dinner, I will personally come over and feed you with a spoon. Punch says I am not allowed to say that because it sounds threatening, but I want you to know it is absolutely threatening.”
Punch’s voice appeared farther away. “Tell him the apartment better not be creepy!”
Tam added, “Ask if the cheap rent includes ghosts!”
Offroad, barely audible, said, “Even ghosts are better than his ex.”
There was a thud, followed by the voice of Daou wheezing with laughter. Est stared at the phone. Then, despite everything, he smiled. Small. Tired. Rusted at the edges. He sent back a picture of the mug full of noodles.
A second later, Punch replied: That is not a meal.
Daou replied: That is depression soup.
Offroad replied: Still better than his ex.
Est typed, I’m fine. He deleted it. He typed, I ate, which was true enough.
He sent it, then put the phone face down on the floor before anyone could demand emotional honesty from him. His friends meant well. They loved him loudly, with elbows and snacks and unfiltered opinions. But Est was too raw for loud love tonight.
Tonight, he wanted quiet. The apartment gave him quiet. Too much quiet. The kind that settled not around him but on him.
Est looked toward the hallway.
The bedroom door stood half-open. Beyond it, he could see the corner of his mattress on the floor, still wrapped in plastic. He had not brought the bed frame. He had left it behind with the couch cushions his ex had chosen, the framed print above the dining table, and the little bedside lamp they had bought together during a rainy Saturday trip to a market.
He had taken the mug. He had taken his clothes. He had taken the plants, even the dying basil, because leaving living things behind with that man felt irresponsible. He had not taken the lamp. He regretted that now.
The apartment’s overhead lights were yellow and old, turning every corner into a suggestion. There was a hallway closet near the bathroom that Est had not opened yet. He kept glancing at it for no reason.
No. Not for no reason. Because the door was slightly ajar. Est was almost sure it had been closed earlier. He stared at it. The closet stared back.
“No,” Est said, pointing a chopstick at it. “I am not doing this tonight.”
The closet did not answer.
“Good.”
He finished his noodles, washed the mug, and decided to unpack the bathroom before bed. That was a responsible adult thing to do. Responsible adults did not sit on floors making eye contact with suspicious closets. Responsible adults found towels.
The bathroom was tiny, with old square tiles and a mirror spotted at the edges like it had been crying silver. The sink faucet groaned when he turned it on, then spat water so violently Est jumped back and soaked the front of his shirt.
He shut it off. “Plumbing,” he said again, less confidently.
The light flickered once. Est looked up at it. It flickered again. He narrowed his eyes.
“I already paid the deposit. So, stop it.”
The light stopped flickering. Est stood there with wet fabric clinging to his stomach, one hand on the sink, staring at the ceiling.
“Thank you,” he said slowly.
The bathroom remained a bathroom. Good. Fine. Whatever.
He brushed his teeth using a bottle of water from his bag. He changed into pajamas in the bedroom, which was just a glorified old T-shirt and soft shorts, then spent ten minutes digging through a box for his phone charger. He found three socks, a notebook from university, an unopened pack of sticky notes, and one framed photo of him and his ex that he had definitely meant to throw away.
He froze with his hand inside the box. The photo was from two years ago. They were standing in front of a cafe, Est smiling shyly at the camera while his ex leaned against him with one arm around his waist. Est remembered that day with humiliating clarity. He had thought he looked happy. He had thought they looked happy.
Now the photo looked like evidence from a crime scene. He took it out slowly. For a second, he considered snapping the frame in half. But anger required energy, and Est was tired. So tired.
He set the photo face down on the floor. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” he whispered.
The room went cold. A sudden dramatic cool brush along the back of his neck, as if someone had opened a window. Est looked up. The window was closed.
He rubbed his arms. “Old building, weird vibes,” he said.
A soft creak came from the living room. Est stopped moving. He listened. Silence. Then another creak. Oh no. Someone was walking in the living room. Est’s heart gave one hard kick against his ribs. He slowly stood. There were several possible explanations.
One, the building was settling.
Two, a neighbor’s footsteps were traveling weirdly through the floor.
Three, someone had broken in, which would be terrible, but at least normal.
Four, his friends had cursed him by joking about ghosts, and now the universe was being deeply unoriginal.
Est grabbed the nearest weapon, which happened to be a roll of toilet paper. He stared at it. Then he grabbed the framed photo too, because at least that had sharp corners.
He stepped into the hallway.
The living room was dim, lit only by the lamp he had placed near the couch. Boxes stood where he had left them. The front door was locked. The windows were shut. Nothing moved. Est let out a slow breath. Then his keys slid off the little table by the door and dropped to the floor. Not fell. Slid. Like someone had pushed them with one finger.
Est stared. The keys lay there, gleaming silver. His grip tightened around the photo frame.
“Hello?” he said.
No answer. Of course, not. He felt ridiculous. He felt terrified. He felt so exhausted that the terror had nowhere to bloom properly.
His keys moved again. This time, they skittered across the floor, stopping just beside the shoe rack. Est closed his eyes. He counted to three and opened them. The keys were still by the shoe rack.
He looked up at the ceiling. “Okay,” he said. “I know I said I wanted a fresh start, but I did not mean a full genre change.”
The apartment remained silent as Est walked over, picked up the keys, and placed them back on the table.
“Stay.”
The keys, like a good puppy, stayed as he backed away. The moment he turned toward the bedroom, the keys hit the floor again. Clink.
Est turned slowly. The keys were on the floor. Again.
Something in Est snapped, but not the way fear snapped. It was thinner, sharper, more pathetic. The thread of a man who had endured one too many inconveniences while trying not to collapse.
He marched back, grabbed the keys, and slapped them onto the table.
“Listen,” he said to the empty room, voice low and trembling with fury rather than fear. “I do not know what this is. Bad foundation. Rude wind. Rodent with upper body strength. But I have had a very bad month.”
The lamp flickered. Est pointed at it. “Don’t you flicker at me.”
The lamp steadied.
“I got cheated on. I moved out. I have eaten noodles from a mug. My mattress is still in plastic. I do not know where my charger is. I am one emotional inconvenience away from crying in a supermarket aisle because the bread looks lonely.”
Something creaked near the kitchen. Est turned toward it.
“So whatever you are,” he continued, “ghost, rat, plumbing demon, former tenant with boundary issues, please understand that I am not in the mood. If you are here to kill me, do it while I'm asleep. If you are here to scare me, schedule it for next week. If you are here to hide my keys, I will become worse than you.”
Silence. Deep, stunned silence. Then, from somewhere near the kitchen cabinets, came that same faint laugh. This time, there was no mistaking it. It was bright. Young. Amused. And very, very close.
Est’s breath caught. The hair on his arms rose. For one long moment, he stood in the center of his new apartment, clutching his keys to his chest while something unseen laughed softly in his kitchen.
Then the cabinet above the stove opened by itself. Slowly. Dramatically. Like a stage curtain. Est stared at it as the cabinet door gave a tiny creak.
Est stared harder. Nothing came out. No monster. No face. No pale hand. Just an open cabinet. He looked at the cabinet. Then at his keys. Then back at the cabinet.
Finally, he said, “You’re the plumbing demon?”
The cabinet door slammed shut. Hard. Est jumped despite himself. The laugh came again, but this time it sounded offended. Actually offended.
Est blinked.
“Oh,” he said, because apparently he had reached the part of the night where he was apologizing to invisible household problems. “Sorry.”
The kitchen light flickered once. Est did not know how to interpret that. Acceptance? Insult? A supernatural eye roll? He decided not to ask.
He picked up his keys, shoved them under his pillow in the bedroom like a paranoid dragon with a tiny metal treasure, and lay down on the plastic-covered mattress without brushing the dust off his feet.
The plastic crinkled under him. The room was dark. The apartment settled around him. For several minutes, Est stared at the ceiling.
His heart was still beating too fast, but strangely, he did not feel alone in the way he had before. The silence had changed shape. It was no longer empty. It was occupied. That should have made it worse.
Somehow, it did not.
Maybe because whatever was in the apartment had laughed. Maybe because it had listened when he told the lamp not to flicker. Maybe because after weeks of being treated like he was too much, too sensitive, too quiet, too easy to leave, even a haunting felt better than indifference.
Est closed his eyes. “I’m sleeping now,” he announced to the room. “Do not hover over me.”
The floorboards creaked once. Est opened one eye.
“I mean it.”
Nothing happened. He closed his eye again.
Outside, the city murmured below the window. Pipes knocked faintly in the wall. Somewhere far away, someone laughed on the street. Inside Apartment 4B, the air cooled gently, like a blanket being pulled up by careful hands that could not quite touch.
Est drifted toward sleep. Right before he fell under, he heard it. A voice. Soft, close, and unmistakably amused.
“You’re really not scared?”
Est was too tired to open his eyes.
He turned his face into the pillow and mumbled, “I paid first and last month’s rent.”
A pause. Then the voice laughed again. This time, Est fell asleep to it.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
William had been dead for four years, seven months, and twelve days, which was more than enough time to develop standards.
Haunting standards. Artistic standards. Personal standards. Apartment 4B standards. And right now, Est was failing in all of them.
The first rule of being haunted was simple – the human had to be scared. Not necessarily screaming-in-the-hallway scared, though William appreciated enthusiasm. Not immediately-breaking-the-lease scared, though that had its own delicious sparkle. But at the very least, the human needed to show some respect for the supernatural situation.
A gasp. A trembling hand. A dropped mug. A prayer. A tiny little “who’s there?” whispered into the dark. Anything.
Instead, Est had walked into William’s apartment with tired eyes, sad shoulders, and the emotional energy of a spoon left in a sink for three days. He had looked around at the peeling wallpaper and old floorboards, declared everything wrong to be plumbing, and started unpacking mugs.
Mugs.
William had watched from the corner of the kitchen ceiling, invisible and upside down, his arms folded across his chest.
The audacity.
The apartment was not just cheap. It was famous. Infamous, even. Apartment 4B had a reputation. Tenants came with bravery and left with religious objects. They heard footsteps at night. They saw shadows in the mirror. They found messages in fogged glass and keys in impossible places.
One woman had lasted two days. A man with a beard and a guitar had lasted six hours. A pair of university students had made it three weeks because they thought the haunting was “a vibe” until William rearranged all their furniture while they slept. They had moved out before sunrise, carrying their mattress sideways through the hallway while crying and arguing over who had angered the ghost.
William had been proud of that one. He had range. He had timing. He had flair.
And then Est came. Est, who had not even gotten scared properly when the cabinet made him jump. Est, who looked more wounded than afraid. Est, who had apologized to an invisible presence after calling him plumbing.
Plumbing.
William had not been this insulted since the bearded guitarist tried to cleanse him with a discount scented candle named Ocean Courage.
He floated through the ceiling and into the living room, still replaying Est’s voice in his head.
“You’re the plumbing demon?”
William pressed a transparent hand against his chest.
“I am twenty-one forever,” he whispered to the empty room. “I died tragically. I have a jawline that can cut through glass. I am not plumbing.”
The apartment, which had no opinion but often felt like it did, creaked around him.
William narrowed his eyes at the bedroom door. Behind it, Est was asleep on a plastic-covered mattress like a person who had been defeated by both life and furniture. His keys were shoved under his pillow. William knew because William had checked.
Checked. Not snooped or anything like that, because there was a difference. A ghost had rights. A ghost had curiosities. A ghost had, admittedly, very little else to do.
William drifted closer to the bedroom and peeked through the wall.
Est was lying on his side, face half-buried in the pillow, one hand tucked under his cheek. His hair was messy from moving all day. His lashes cast faint shadows under his eyes. Even asleep, he looked tired in a way that annoyed William for reasons he did not yet want to inspect.
Humans were not supposed to bring that much sadness into his apartment. Fear, yes. Irritation, occasionally. Stubborn denial, often. But sadness? Sadness seeped into the walls. William knew. He had been soaking in it for years.
He hovered near the doorway and stared. Est mumbled something in his sleep. William leaned closer.
“Don’t take the keys.”
William’s mouth fell open. “I’m not obsessed with your keys,” he whispered.
Est did not wake.
William floated backward, offended all over again. He had pushed the keys twice. Three times if one counted moving them from the table to the floor. That was not obsession. That was… structure. Because a haunting required motifs.
But fine. If Est wanted a proper haunting, William would provide one. No more polite little cabinet doors. No more artistic key movement. Tomorrow, William would show him what Apartment 4B could really do. Tomorrow, Est would scream. Or possibly gasp. He would accept a gasp.
William smiled to himself.
The next morning, Est woke at seven with the expression of someone whose soul had received insufficient notice. William was already waiting. He had planned the entire thing. First, the cold spot near the bed. Then, the whisper from the hallway. Then, the bathroom mirror.
Classics worked for a reason.
Est sat up slowly, hair sticking up on one side, and stared at the room like he was disappointed to find himself still living in it. William, invisible beside the window, dragged a thread of cold air across the floor.
The temperature dropped. The curtains moved though the window was shut. Est paused. William grinned. Yes. There. Good. The human noticed.
Est reached for his phone, checked the time, and said, “The heater better not be broken.”
William’s grin vanished. He swept past the bed, making the air colder. Est pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and glared at the wall.
“I just moved in.”
William clenched his fists. He moved to phase two. From the hallway, he whispered, very softly, “Est.”
Est froze, and William felt triumph bloom bright in his chest. There it was. Finally. The fruit of his late-night snooping had paid off. Est slowly turned toward the door. William whispered again, lower this time.
“Est.”
Est stared into the empty hallway. The air thickened. The room waited. William waited. Then Est said, “No.”
William blinked. No? What the hell did ‘no’ mean? Est flopped backward onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over his face.
“No supernatural nonsense before coffee.”
William hovered there in absolute disbelief. He had never been told no during a haunting before. That was not how this worked. A haunting was not a request. It was an atmosphere. A performance. A haunting happened to a person. The person did not negotiate timing.
William floated through the wall into the hallway, pointing at the bedroom though Est could not see him.
“You cannot simply decline being haunted,” he said.
From under the blanket, Est mumbled, “I can decline anything before coffee.”
William stared. Then he smiled. Fine. Fine. Coffee first. Then terror.
William followed Est through the morning like a wronged deity with excellent cheekbones. Est brushed his teeth with bottled water because the faucet had offended him the night before. William made the bathroom light flicker once.
Est looked up with the toothbrush in his mouth and raised one finger. “Coffee,” he said around the foam.
The light stopped. William had not meant to obey. It just happened. He floated backward through the sink, horrified by himself.
Est made instant coffee in the kitchen. Bad instant coffee. Terrible instant coffee. The kind that smelled like burnt rags and convenience-store dust. William watched him stir it in the blue mug and felt personally wounded on behalf of beverages everywhere.
“You drink that willingly?” William asked, still invisible.
Est did not react. Of course he could not hear him now. Last night and this morning had taken energy. Speaking clearly to humans was difficult, especially when they were tired enough to accept ghosts as roommates.
William waited until Est lifted the mug. Then he flicked the cabinet above him open. It creaked dramatically. Est looked at it. William waited while Est took a sip of coffee without a care in the world.
“Morning,” Est said to the cabinet.
William nearly fell out of the air. Morning? Morning? He opened the second cabinet.
Est sipped again. “Do you want coffee?”
William paused. Huh. That was new. No one had ever offered him coffee before. Mostly because he was dead. But also because he had spent the last few years making people afraid of their own kitchen appliances.
Est set the mug down and opened another cabinet, rummaging through it until he found nothing because he had barely unpacked. He looked around, sighed, and said, “I only have one mug.” William drifted closer. Est pushed the blue mug slightly toward the empty side of the counter.
“There. Share spiritually.”
William stared at the mug. It was ridiculous. It was also, unfortunately, a little cute. He hated that. He hated the mug. He hated the kitchen. He hated Est’s sleepy face and soft voice and the way he had just accepted the possibility of a ghost wanting coffee.
William placed one invisible finger on the mug. The ceramic trembled. Est watched it. His expression changed, not into fear exactly. Something smaller. More curious. William pushed the mug one inch across the counter.
Est’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay,” Est said. “So you’re real.”
William puffed up. Finally. Finally, some recognition.
Then Est added, “That’s inconvenient.”
William slammed every cabinet in the kitchen open at once. Est jumped so hard he almost knocked over the coffee. A thrill ran through William. Yes. There. That was a proper reaction.
Est clutched the edge of the counter, eyes wide, breathing faster. William waited for the scream. Est closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Then said, “You are so annoying.”
William opened his mouth. No sound came out. He was not annoying. He was haunting. There was a distinction.
Est looked around the kitchen at the open cabinets. “I’m not closing all of those.”
William shut them. Hard. The apartment rattled. Est stared at the cabinets. William stared back, invisible and furious. Then Est picked up his coffee and walked to the living room.
“You can throw your tantrum alone,” he said.
Tantrum? Tantrum? What. The. Fuck?
William followed him in a storm of cold air. Est sat cross-legged on the floor because he had not properly set up the couch yet. He pulled a box toward him and began unpacking books. William hovered above him, simmering.
He had expected a challenge. He had not expected a human who treated paranormal activity like poor customer service. Fine. New strategy. If Est would not be scared by sound, temperature, cabinets, or whispered names, William would use the mirror.
The mirror always worked. That evening, after Est had spent the day unpacking and pretending not to notice every time William moved something two inches to the left, he went into the bathroom.
William went ahead of him. He gathered himself in the mirror. This was not easy. Reflections were stubborn. They showed what existed, and William, technically, did not. But with enough energy, enough focus, enough old anger, he could make the surface remember him.
The bathroom cooled. The mirror fogged, though Est had not showered. William dragged invisible letters across the glass.
L.
E.
A.
V.
E.
He floated back, pleased. Classic. Sharp. Elegant. A little dramatic, yes, but death had earned him drama.
Est entered the bathroom, stopped, and stared at the mirror. William watched from the corner, nearly vibrating. This was it. Est’s face was pale in the dim light. His eyes moved over the letters.
The room held its breath. Est stepped closer. His hand lifted. William waited for him to touch the message with trembling fingers.
Instead, Est wiped the corner of the mirror with his sleeve, squinted at his own reflection, and said, “Can I finish my lease first?”
William’s entire afterlife cracked down the middle. Est picked up his toothbrush. William stared at him. Est put toothpaste on the toothbrush. William stared harder. Est brushed his teeth. William drifted forward until his face was inches from Est’s in the mirror, though Est still could not see him.
“You are impossible,” William hissed.
Est paused mid-brush. His eyes flicked around the bathroom. William froze. Had he heard that?
Est rinsed his mouth, leaned toward the mirror, and said, “Also, if you want me to leave, you need to talk to the landlord. I already paid.”
Then he walked out. William stayed in the bathroom for a full minute. The mirror slowly cleared. His message disappeared. He looked at his faint reflection in the glass, barely there. A young face. A dead face. A handsome face, thank you very much, even if Est had failed to appreciate it.
“I do not like him,” William announced.
The bathroom light flickered. William pointed at it. “Do not argue with me.”
The light steadied. He followed Est to the living room again. By then, it was dark outside. The apartment glowed in small pockets. One lamp near the couch. The kitchen light. The city beyond the windows, blurred by old glass and distance.
Est had finally made the couch usable by throwing a blanket over it. He sat there with his knees pulled up, phone in one hand. William meant to knock something over. A book, perhaps. Or maybe the sad basil plant.
But then Est’s phone buzzed. William was close enough to see the screen light up with a name. For a split second, Est changed. That was the only way William could describe it.
All day, Est had been tired and dry and unimpressed. He had faced ghostly cabinets with the spirit of a man writing a complaint email. But when the phone buzzed, something small and fragile opened on his face. Hope, maybe. Or fear wearing hope’s clothes.
Then Est saw the name properly, and the fragile thing collapsed. William did not know who had messaged him. He only saw the way Est’s thumb hovered over the screen. The way his jaw tightened. The way he locked the phone without answering and set it face down like it had bitten him.
The room settled. Est sat very still. And William forgot the basil plant. After a while, Est rubbed both hands over his face and laughed once. It was not a real laugh. It was a broken little thing, sharp enough to cut the air.
“Pathetic,” Est whispered to himself.
William went cold. Not ghost cold. He drifted down until he was sitting in the air across from Est, knees bent, hands loose in his lap. Est could not see him. That was good. Probably.
William looked at him properly for the first time. Est was pretty. William had known that from the first moment, obviously. He was dead, not blind. Est had soft features and gentle eyes and a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile without asking permission first. But he was not just pretty. He was bruised somewhere no one could see.
William hated that. It was irrational. He did not know Est. Est had been in the apartment for barely a day and had already insulted him, ignored him, and accused him of being plumbing. There was no reason for William to feel anything except professional resentment.
Still, he looked at Est and thought, very clearly: Who made you feel like that? The thought startled him. He floated backward. No. Absolutely not. He was not getting invested in a tenant. Tenants left. That was what tenants did. They came in with furniture and noise and warmth. They filled the apartment with smells, voices, music, life. Then they left. Sometimes because William scared them. Sometimes because rent changed. Sometimes because they married, graduated, got new jobs, had babies, died.
People came. People left. William stayed. That was the rule. He had learned it well enough.
Est picked up his phone again. This time, he opened a group chat. William should not have looked, but again, ghost rights. Several names flashed past. Daou. Punch. Tam. Offroad. Messages piled up, teasing and worried.
Est’s mouth softened. A tiny smile. William watched it arrive like sunrise through dirty glass. Then Est typed something short and put the phone away. The smile vanished. William frowned.
“You should call them,” he said, forgetting Est might hear.
Est’s head lifted. William froze. Est looked around the room.
“Was that you again?”
William said nothing. Est waited. The lamp flickered because William lost control for half a second. Est stared at it.
“You have opinions now?”
William pressed his lips together. Est leaned back against the couch, pulling the blanket closer.
“Of course the ghost has opinions,” he muttered. “Why would my cheap apartment not come with judgment?”
William did not mean to laugh. It slipped out. Est heard it. His eyes widened slightly, and he turned toward the sound. William, drunk on reaction, let the cold gather near the window. The curtains stirred. The lamp dimmed.
Est swallowed. William smiled slowly. There it was. Fear. Small, but real. Finally. He let himself appear. Not fully. More like a pale shape in the reflection of the dark window. A silhouette where no living person stood. The suggestion of a young man with dark eyes and a tilted smile.
Est saw him in the glass. He went still. William held the shape, letting the moment stretch. This was his favorite part. The first true sight. The instant the human brain tried to explain and failed. The quiet before panic.
Est turned around slowly.
William stood near the window, translucent at the edges, the city lights faintly visible through his body. He gave Est his most haunting smile. The one that had made the bearded guitarist run into a wall.
“Hello, Est,” William said.
His voice came out soft but clear. Est stared at him. William waited. Est blinked once. Twice. His gaze moved from William’s face to his floating feet, then back up. William lifted a brow.
“Well?”
Est’s fingers tightened around the blanket. The apartment hummed. William tilted his head.
“Aren’t you going to scream?”
Est stared for another long second. Then, with the exhausted sincerity of someone who had reached the end of every possible nerve, he said, “Do you pay rent?”
William’s smile vanished. Est nodded slowly to himself, as though William’s silence confirmed something important.
“Right,” Est said. “Of course not.”
William opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I am a ghost.”
“I noticed.”
“I live here.”
“So do I, mister. I signed a lease.”
“I died here.”
Est paused. For one heartbeat, his expression shifted. William hated the flicker of sympathy that crossed his face. Hated how quickly it arrived. Hated how much warmer it felt than fear.
Then Est said, more gently, “Sorry.”
William blinked. He had not expected that either. He expected terror. He expected denial. He expected the desperate scrambling of a human mind cracking itself open against the impossible. He did not expect Est to look at him with tired eyes and apologize.
The apology made something in William’s chest ache, which was ridiculous, because his chest did not work anymore. His heart had stopped years ago. It had no business remembering pain. So he did what he always did when something hurt. He became unbearable.
“You should be sorry,” William said, drawing himself taller. “I have been haunting this apartment for years. I am very good at it. People fear me.”
Est looked at the cabinet doors. “Do they?”
William pointed at him. “You jumped this morning.”
“You opened twelve cabinets at once.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not fear. That’s a noise complaint.”
William gasped. Est looked at him properly now. Not through him. At him. William felt it like a hand to the throat. Most people could not hold eye contact once they saw him. Their eyes slid away, searching for exits, prayers, weapons. But Est looked at him like he was strange, yes, impossible, yes, but also present.
Real.
It made William want to vanish. It made him want to step closer. He did both badly, flickering at the edges. Est noticed.
“You’re doing that thing,” he said.
“What thing?”
“Glitching.”
“Excuse you – I am manifesting.”
“You are blurry.”
William floated forward, offended enough to forget caution. “Do you speak to all supernatural beings this rudely?”
“You’re the first.”
“Then show some respect.”
“You touched my things. Without consent.”
William paused. That was annoyingly phrased. Est sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“Look, I don’t know how this works,” he said. “And I am probably going to have a breakdown about it later. But tonight, I am very tired.”
William folded his arms, watching him.
Est continued, “So here is what we are going to do. You are going to stop hiding my keys.”
“Moving.”
“Stop moving my keys. You are going to stop writing creepy messages on the mirror.”
“They were elegant.”
“They were humid.”
William’s jaw dropped.
“And,” Est said, holding up a finger, “you are not going to hover over me while I sleep.”
William recoiled. “I have manners.”
Est gave him a look. William remembered peeking through the wall last night and chose not to confess.
“I have some manners,” he amended.
Est nodded like a tired teacher dealing with a difficult child. “Good.”
“That is it?” William asked.
“What?”
“You see a ghost, and your response is what… house rules?”
“My response is survival. Also, rent is expensive.”
William floated closer, lowering his voice into something smoother, prettier. He had not flirted in years. Not properly. But it came back easily, slipping over him like an old jacket.
“You are very calm for someone alone with a dead man.”
Est looked up at him. The line should have worked. It had atmosphere. It had danger. It had a fine edge of seduction. Est yawned. Actually yawned. William stared in outrage.
“Sorry,” Est said, not sounding sorry. “Long day.”
“I was being mysterious.”
“You were being unemployed.”
William clutched his chest. Again. Because apparently Est had found the one insult that could reach beyond death.
“I died young. I was a university student.”
“Still unemployed.”
“I am trapped between worlds.”
“And contributing nothing to utilities.”
William stared at him. Then, against his will, he laughed. It burst out of him bright and startled. The apartment lights flickered with it, not because he meant them to, but because joy was harder to control than anger. His laugh bounced off the old walls, filling the room in a way it had not been filled for years.
Est watched him, and this time his mouth twitched. Not a full smile. But close. William felt victorious for reasons entirely unrelated to haunting.
He floated down until he sat in the air above the floor, legs crossed, facing Est.
“What is your name?” Est asked.
William blinked. A proper introduction. He placed one hand over his chest and bowed midair with enough flourish to make the lamp tremble.
“William.”
Est stared. “That’s it?”
William straightened. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
“I thought ghosts had full tragic names. Like Lord Something of the Cursed Hallway.”
“I am twenty-one, not Victorian.”
“You live in the walls.”
“I haunt tastefully.”
“You hide keys.”
William pointed at him. “Move.”
Est’s mouth twitched again. William wanted that almost-smile to become real. The thought arrived so suddenly, so softly, that it startled him more than any scream ever had. He wanted Est to smile. Not because of fear. Not because the apartment forced some reaction out of him. Just because. Dangerous. Stupid.
Human things were always dangerous. William knew that better than anyone.
Est shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “William, I’m going to sleep.”
William heard his name in Est’s voice and went quiet. It had been a long time since someone said his name like that. Not screaming it. Not reading it from an old article. Not whispering it in a prayer to get him to leave. Just saying it. William. Like he was someone in the room.
He swallowed, though he did not need to. “Fine,” he said, softer than he intended. “Sleep, then.”
Est stood, blanket around his shoulders like a small cape, and walked toward the bedroom. At the doorway, he paused and looked back. William hovered in the living room, glowing faintly in the lamplight, younger forever, handsome forever, dead forever.
Est said, “Goodnight.”
William forgot every clever thing he had ever said. Est waited.
William managed, “Goodnight.”
Then Est went into the bedroom and shut the door halfway. Not all the way. Halfway. As if William was strange but not unwelcome. As if the apartment was haunted but not unlivable. As if Est had not just changed the shape of the silence without noticing.
William remained in the living room for a long time. The lamp hummed quietly. The city moved outside. The apartment, old and creaky and full of William’s unfinished death, held its breath around him.
He looked toward the bedroom door. He should scare Est properly tomorrow. He should make him leave. It was safer that way. For Est, probably. For William, definitely. Humans left. If they did not leave at first, they left eventually. They packed boxes, returned keys, closed doors, and disappeared into lives William could not follow.
Better to frighten him now. Better to keep the rules simple. Ghost. Human. Haunting. Tenant. Nothing else.
William floated toward the kitchen, where the blue mug sat clean beside the sink. He stared at it for a moment. Then he reached out and, with careful concentration, nudged it away from the edge of the counter so it would not fall.
In the bedroom, Est shifted in his sleep. William turned toward the sound immediately. Absolutely not. He was not getting attached. He was not.
He went to the wall near the window, crossed his arms, and stared out at the city with all the dignity of a ghost who had absolutely not just protected a mug. Tomorrow, he decided, he would be terrifying.
Truly terrifying. No more softness. No more curiosity. No more caring about Est’s stupid keys or sad eyes or terrible coffee.
Tomorrow, Est would scream. William nodded to himself. The apartment light flickered once, like it did not believe him. William glared at it.
“Don’t start,” he whispered.
From the bedroom came Est’s sleepy voice, muffled by the pillow. “Stop arguing with the lamp.”
William froze. Then, slowly, he smiled. Oh. Est was going to be a problem. A beautiful, exhausted, rude, impossible problem.
William floated a little higher, his mood lifting despite his best efforts. Fine. Let him be a problem. William had been dead for four years, seven months, and twelve days.
Maybe a problem was exactly what he needed.