The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Riley had lived there long before anyone in the building really knew him. No one knew his job. He rarely went out, and when he did, it was for a very short time—always wearing a long black coat and dark glasses, even at night.

Then came his niece. A young girl, sent without explanation, carrying a small suitcase and a vacant gaze. There was no embrace. No welcome. Just a nod from Riley when he opened the door.

“There’s a room at the end of the hall. Don’t enter any locked doors.”

That was all.

Their days passed like shadows. The girl took care of herself. She asked nothing. She never touched what didn’t belong to her. Even when she started noticing that Riley locked every drawer, placed motion sensors under the rugs, and wiped footprints from the wooden floor every night—she remained silent.

Nighttime was the strangest. Riley never slept until every curtain was drawn, every light was off, and the temperature scanner beeped exactly three times. Sometimes the girl would peek from the crack of her door—but never for more than five seconds.

One night, the power went out briefly.

In the dark, she saw a small door in the hallway slightly ajar—a door that was always locked. A door Riley had strictly forbidden her to touch.

The next morning, Riley sat at the breakfast table, as usual. But this time, he looked straight at her.

“There were footprints in front of the basement door,” he said quietly, but clearly. “If it happens again, I’ll lock you in your room. Not because I’m angry... but because I don’t want to lose control.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t react. She simply sat there, staring into her empty teacup.

Riley stood, took the kettle, and poured tea slowly—just to the same mark as every day before.

Silence returned. And the two of them went on, living within rules that were never agreed upon—but followed completely.