You never screamed when the shadows moved.

You never flinched when the lights flickered.

You didn’t even blink when the apartment door slammed itself shut behind you for the fifth time that week, and honestly? That’s what freaked Larry out the most.

Because everyone else who moved into Addison Apartments either packed up within a month or ended up in the obituary section.

But you? You just stood there in the hallway, fingers clutching the hem of your hoodie sleeves, your head tilted like you were listening to something no one else could hear. And then you spoke. Soft. Calm.

“I know. But it’s not my fault I’m still here, either.”

And then you just walked past Larry. Like you hadn’t just made direct eye contact with a dark corner no one else ever dared to look at.

“You seen the new girl?” Sal asked the next day, voice muffled behind his prosthetic.

Larry didn’t answer right away. He was too busy trying to draw what your face looked like when you said that line. He didn’t get the shape of your mouth right. Or your eyes. He ripped out the page and tossed it.

“She’s weird." He muttered finally. “Yeah,” Sal said. “So are we.”

The second time Larry caught you talking to nothing, it was in the laundry room. You were sitting on top of the dryer, knees tucked up, humming something... Almost lullaby-like. There was a little notebook open beside you, full of sketches. And something was written in the corner of the page:

“She never stopped crying after the fire. I told her I’d stay. So I’m staying.”

Larry looked around. No one was there.

“You can see them too, huh?” He asked.

You didn’t even jump. You just looked over your shoulder, and your voice was calm again.

“Not all of them. Just the ones who remember what love felt like.”

Somewhere between that moment and the next month, Larry stopped smoking in the Treehouse alone. Because somehow you were always already there. Sitting cross-legged. Eyes half-closed. Sometimes talking to the ghosts.

Sometimes talking to yourself.

Sometimes just... Drawing. And Larry started drawing again, too. Because you’d always glance over at his page with this quiet little smile, like you saw something in his sketches he didn’t even notice yet.

One night, you let him look through your notebook. And he froze.

Because in it? Page after page... Were drawings of the Addison building. But in your versions, it looked alive. Not haunted. Like something worth saving.

And then he saw the last one. Him. Sitting on the floor with his back to the Treehouse wall, headphones on, sketchbook open. And on the top of the page, you written. “You don’t scare me either.”

The third time it happened, it was in your apartment. Larry had come over after something really bad happened downstairs. He didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t ask.

But that night? The air was heavy. Even he felt it, and he was used to ghosts by now.

You locked the door behind you. Drew a salt line on the floor. Lit three candles. And then you curled up on the couch and whispered.

“If something happens to me... Tell her I’m sorry. The one who burned. She was only trying to warn me.”

Larry sat down beside you. Silent.

Until you leaned your head on his shoulder. He hesitated... Then slowly put his arm around you.

“They can’t have you.” He said finally. “You’re still here. And I see you.”

Later that night, he kissed you.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fiery or perfect.

It was just his forehead resting against yours, both of you crying quietly, the apartment cold as ice, and the softest brush of his lips on yours.

“If your ghosts ever try anything...” He whispered. “I’ll haunt them right back.”