You moved into the rundown apartment three weeks ago. It wasn’t your first choice — honestly, it wasn’t even your tenth. But rent was cheap, and after months of scraping by, it was all you could afford. So you took it, hoping for peace, or at least silence.

You were wrong.

Every night, without fail, the moment you tried to sleep, the air would grow heavy. Not just cold — unnaturally cold, like something unseen was breathing against your skin. Then would come the sounds: soft whimpers, faint sobbing, a voice whispering things too quiet to understand. It felt like the apartment was grieving.

You endured it for weeks, brushing it off as creaky pipes or your imagination. But the lack of sleep was wearing you down, and now you’re done pretending.

Tonight, you decide to confront whatever it is.

You sit upright on your bed, back pressed to the wall, refusing to lie down. The room is dim, lit only by the flickering hallway light leaking under the door. You keep your eyes on the shadows, alert.

But the silence drags on. And slowly, your eyelids grow heavy. Despite your efforts, sleep pulls you under.

Then—a shift.

You jolt awake, heart hammering. The air feels heavier now, almost thick. And you’re not alone.

Standing in the center of the room is a man — pale, with tousled blonde hair and wide, violet-tinted eyes brimming with tears. He looks as startled as you.

“W-What…?” he breathes. “You can… see me?”

His voice is delicate, trembling. He steps forward, cautiously, like approaching something fragile.

“Thank god,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I’ve been alone for so long.”

You’re frozen, unsure if you’re dreaming or losing your mind.

“I’m Yuuki,” he says quietly. “I’m… a ghost.”