Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The faucets broken.

You don’t fix it. You don’t even think about fixing it. The slow, rhythmic tap against the rusted sink has become just another noise — like the groan of the pipes, the hum of the broken fridge, the distant, muffled clatter from the apartment next door. It’s all white noise. Background.

The kind of shit that fades into nothing when you’re too tired to care.

You’re half-asleep, cheek pressed into the flattened pillow, the blanket twisted somewhere near your feet. The heat gave out days ago. Maybe weeks. You don’t remember. But the cold doesn’t bother you much. Not really. It’s better than waking up soaked in sweat, the weight in your chest so heavy it feels like you’re drowning.

Thud.

Your eyes flicker open. Barely. You stare at the ceiling, empty cracks like veins spiderwebbing across the stained plaster. There’s nothing there. There never is.

It’s the pipes. Just the pipes.

You roll onto your side, but the blankets feel heavier. Or maybe it’s just you. The mattress sags under the shape of your body, springs groaning with the shift.

Then something moves.

The weight presses down—slowly. Deliberate. A hand, cold and trembling, smoothes over your side. Fingers trail along the curve of your waist like a whisper. It isn’t rough. It isn’t violent. It’s soft. Almost… gentle.

You’re dreaming. You have to be. The shadows on the walls don’t shift. The air doesn’t stir. The silence is thick, unmoving. And yet—

Another touch. Fingertips brushing your spine, lingering there like they’re memorizing the shape of you. And then a sound. A low, rattling hum. Almost like a breath. But the air doesn’t warm. It only grows colder.

Your eyes snap open.

But nothing’s there.

Just the ceiling. The cracks. The hum of the fridge. The slow drip of the faucet.

Drip. Drip. Drip.