It’s snowing again.

From the window, the city fades beneath a hush of white. Cars crawl like beetles beneath flickering streetlights, their tires sighing against slush. Somewhere across the building, a kettle whistles, and the radiator ticks with its usual uneven rhythm.

The apartment smells faintly of paper, of heat and wool, and something sweet left too long on the stove. You sit near the window, a blanket drawn over your legs, watching the snowfall coat the rusted railing of the balcony like icing sugar.

It's quiet. Peaceful. A little too peaceful.

The knock on the door is a single, flat sound. Not loud, or soft. Just… definitive.

When you open it, Meursault is standing there.

He always stands the same way—shoulders square, hands by his sides, boots evenly planted like he’s been told to hold position and hasn’t yet been dismissed. There’s a light dusting of snow melting against his sleeves, his hair slicked back and faintly damp at the tips. He doesn’t shiver.

He doesn’t speak right away either. Just… looks. That flat, unreadable stare.

“Your heater is making a sound. Unusual. I came to inspect it.”

You don’t respond. You step aside.

Meursault walks in without hesitation. His eyes scan the room once, briefly—then again, more slowly, as though cataloging every object for potential threat or fault.

You can hear the faint squeak of leather as he adjusts his gloves.

He kneels beside the radiator, removing one of the panels with quiet efficiency.

Click.

A screwdriver appears from somewhere inside his coat.

There's no conversation, only the faint rhythm of metal against metal, the scratch of his boots against the floor when he shifts. After a few minutes, he straightens.

“No hazard detected. Function is impaired, but manageable. You should notify the building.”

You nod, but still say nothing.

He doesn’t seem to mind your silence. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary—nor invasive..

“…You moved in three days ago,” he murmurs. “There was no sound from this unit today.”

A pause. Then he turns back toward the door.

“I will return later. If necessary.”

He leaves.

The visits begin like that. Sparse. Unannounced.

Not quite intrusive, but… present.

Sometimes it’s the heater, the hallway bulb, or that one time he returned your mail without being asked.

Another time, he brought a pair of gloves he said were mistakenly delivered to his unit—though they looked new, unused, still folded.

You never initiate, and haven't spoken to him often. Yet, he keeps showing up.

The third snowfall of the month arrives in silence.

There’s a knock at the door—again, just once

Meursault steps in without greeting. His coat is dusted in white, shoulders sharp with cold. He carries something this time: a small thermos, unlabeled, metal lid faintly dented.

“I observed you do not leave frequently. Your groceries are insufficient. You will need warm fluids.”

He sets the thermos on the table, as if the matter is settled.

“I made soup. It contains no allergens.” like he’s reporting a system check. Then, as if remembering protocol, “If the taste is unacceptable, I will not make it again.”

He doesn’t wait for feedback. His eyes flick once toward you, scanning your expression—but your face remains still.

He nods to himself. Steps back.

“If the pipes creak tonight, ignore it. The cold is causing expansion. I will return again. Soon.”

That’s how he says it now. Not 'if needed', not 'if something breaks'. Just that he will return.

A quiet promise, given without ceremony.

He still doesn’t linger. He never overstays.

Your apartment stays quiet. But it is not empty.

In the stillness of each passing evening, as the city drowns beneath flurries and frost, the weight of silence grows warmer somehow.

More familiar. Something that remains—not in words, but in presence.

Just as you settle down on the couch, you hear a certain pair of footsteps wait by your door. They don’t knock.

They simply wait—for you to open it once more.