In the morning the building wakes the way it always does, with the sound of the garbage chute opening and closing on every floor and the low hum of the elevator motors pulling people down toward the lobby, and Narin stands in his kitchen rinsing a mug that still smells faintly of instant coffee while his phone rests on the counter beside the sink, screen lighting up and going dark again as notifications arrive and then stack on top of one another without sound.

  He lets the water run a little too long before turning it off, then wipes his hands on a dish towel that used to belong to May, the fabric thin in the middle from years of use, and folds it without really looking at it before setting it back on the hook, the way he does every morning even though no one else is there to notice whether it hangs straight.

  Outside the window the condo across the street reflects the sun in sharp white flashes, and below that a motorbike revs and sputters as someone tries to get it started, and from the hallway comes the sound of a neighbor’s door opening and a child’s voice asking for something that sounds like money or snacks.

  Narin picks up his phone and scrolls, his thumb moving with the easy rhythm of habit, and he opens the real estate forum he checks every day, the one where agents trade gossip about listings and bad clients and which buildings are suddenly impossible to sell, and he reads the title of a new thread twice before tapping it open because the words feel heavier than they should.

  “Anyone else dealing with the Floor 19 condo?”

  The post is short, written in the casual tone people use when they pretend they are just curious, and it mentions strange noises and complaints and a unit that keeps coming back on the market even though the view is good and the price keeps dropping, and beneath it are replies stacking quickly, some dismissive and some eager, people adding details like seasoning.

  Narin scrolls and reads about crying that does not match any baby registered in the building and about lights turning on by themselves and about a security guard who quit without explanation, and he notices how no one uses names, how everyone says things like a friend told me or I heard from a tenant, and he feels his jaw tighten even though his face stays still.

  In another unit on the same floor, an older woman named Ploy stands at her stove stirring rice porridge in a pot that has boiled over slightly, the milky water leaving a white ring on the black glass surface, and she turns the heat down while glancing toward the front door as if listening for something she does not want to hear again.

  She ladles the porridge into a bowl and adds a soft boiled egg, tapping the shell gently against the counter before peeling it, and she pauses with a piece of shell stuck to her thumb, her eyes unfocused as she remembers the sound she heard two nights ago, thin and distant, like a radio in another apartment left on low volume.

  Her husband reads the news on a tablet at the small dining table, his glasses sliding down his nose, and he asks if she slept badly again, and she shrugs and says it was the heat, and they eat in silence except for the sound of spoons touching ceramic.

  Downstairs in the security office, the morning guard pours himself a cup of instant coffee and stirs it with a plastic spoon, the granules clumping at the bottom before dissolving, and he glances at the monitor wall where the feeds from each floor show the usual images of empty hallways and potted plants and the occasional resident walking past in slippers.

  He clicks into the archived footage from last week, his fingers hesitating for a second before he does, and he fast forwards through long stretches of nothing, stopping briefly at a time stamp just after midnight, then skipping ahead again, his mouth set in a thin line.

  His supervisor walks in and asks if the footage from Floor 19 is ready to be sent to management, and the guard nods and says yes without turning around, then minimizes the window and opens another file instead, the sound of the coffee machine hissing behind him.

  In her apartment across town, Dao sits at her vanity with her phone propped up against a makeup palette, the front camera on as she applies concealer under her eyes with careful taps, her movements practiced and light, and she talks to the screen as if someone is listening even though she has not pressed record yet.

  She pauses mid sentence when a comment notification pops up from a follower asking if she really lives near that haunted condo everyone is talking about, and she frowns slightly before smoothing her expression and laughing it off, saying people online believe anything, and she finishes blending her makeup before checking the forums herself.

  Her feed fills with screenshots of posts and shaky videos filmed in dark hallways, captions full of laughing emojis and speculation, and she scrolls faster, her thumb flicking upward in short sharp motions, until she sees a familiar photo of the building exterior, the one used in marketing brochures, now overlaid with text about accidents and ghosts.

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  She sets the phone down and reaches for a hair tie, pulling her hair back too tightly, then loosening it again, and she glances at her reflection, tilting her head slightly as if checking for something behind her.

  Back in Narin’s apartment, the phone vibrates against the counter again, and he ignores it while opening the fridge and taking out a container of leftovers, rice and stir fried vegetables that taste of garlic and oil, and he heats them in the microwave, the low whirring sound filling the kitchen.

  He eats standing up, leaning against the counter, his eyes on the wall where a faint scuff mark still shows from when May moved the dining chair, and he chews slowly, the food dry in his mouth, and when he finishes he rinses the container and places it neatly in the drying rack.

  The phone buzzes again, and this time he picks it up, opening a message from his manager asking if he has seen the online chatter and whether he thinks it will affect upcoming viewings, and Narin types a reply saying rumors fade quickly and that the building still has strong fundamentals, deleting and retyping the last sentence twice before sending it.

  He scrolls through more posts, some on real estate blogs and some on general forums where anonymous users trade stories, and he notices how the tone shifts as the day goes on, curiosity giving way to something sharper, people arguing about whether ghosts are real and whether the woman who died was really pregnant and why no one seems to know her name.

  At a small café near the condo, two delivery drivers sit at a table sharing iced coffees, condensation pooling on the plastic surface, and one of them shows the other a video on his phone, the camera shaking as it pans down a hallway while a faint sound can be heard in the background.

  The other driver leans closer, squinting, and asks if that is real, and the first shrugs and says who knows but the comments are wild, and they laugh a little too loudly before changing the subject to traffic fines and bad customers.

  In the afternoon, a woman from management goes door to door on Floor 19, carrying a clipboard and wearing a polite smile that tightens at the corners, and she knocks and waits, knocking again when there is no answer, leaving notices under doors that say routine inspection in neutral language.

  She pauses outside Narin’s unit, listening, her pen hovering over the paper, then writes something down and moves on, the sound of her footsteps soft on the carpet.

  Inside his apartment, Narin sits at his desk with his laptop open, scrolling through listings and emails, and every so often he glances at the time, at the light shifting outside the window, at the door as if expecting someone to knock.

  He hears voices in the hallway, a couple arguing quietly, their words muffled but tense, and then the elevator dings and the sound fades, leaving the apartment very still.

  Later, when the sun has dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the living room floor, Narin’s phone rings, and he answers it after a few seconds, listening as his colleague talks about a client who backed out after reading something online, and Narin says he understands and that it happens, his voice even.

  He walks to the window while he talks, watching the lights in other units turn on one by one, small squares of yellow and white, and he nods even though the person on the other end cannot see him.

  In the security office, the evening guard takes over, sitting down with a packed dinner and opening a food container, the smell of fried chicken filling the small room, and he eats while scrolling through his own phone, pausing when he sees a post about the building trending on a local forum.

  He shakes his head and takes another bite, then glances up at the monitors again, his chewing slowing as his eyes linger on the feed from Floor 19.

  At home, Ploy washes her dishes and stacks them carefully, then wipes the counter, her movements precise, and she turns off the lights one by one, leaving the living room dark except for the glow from the television in the bedroom.

  She lies in bed listening to the sounds of the building settling, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional thud of a door, and she pulls the blanket up to her chin, her hands clasped together.

  On Dao’s feed that night, she posts a photo of herself smiling in soft light, captioned with something about self care, and the comments fill quickly with compliments and questions and a few jokes about ghosts, which she does not reply to.

  She sets her phone face down and goes to brush her teeth, watching herself in the mirror as the toothpaste foams, and when she rinses and looks up again, she stares for a second longer than usual, her hand resting on the sink.

  Back at his desk, Narin refreshes the forum page again and sees a new post from someone claiming to be a former resident, describing sounds and feelings and warning others to stay away, and he closes the tab abruptly, the click of the mouse loud in the quiet room.

  He sits there for a while with his hands folded, his fingers interlaced tightly, then stands and goes to the bathroom, washing his hands slowly, the water running over his skin until it turns slightly pink.

  When he looks up at the mirror, his reflection looks the same as always, tired but composed, and he dries his hands and turns off the light.

  As he heads toward the bedroom, his phone buzzes one last time with a notification from a real estate news site, the headline short and blunt, and he reads it without sitting down.

  “Luxury condo gains eerie reputation after mysterious death.”

  He stands there in the dim hallway, the glow from the screen lighting his face, and he does not scroll further, his thumb hovering over the glass before the screen goes dark.