His name was Louis Ashford. He worked as a lawyer and lived in the apartment next to yours. The building was old, the units small, and when you opened the door, the bed was right there, close enough to touch. You had known Louis for a long time. Long enough to know his habits, his routine, and the sound of his footsteps in the hallway.

That was why you noticed when something was wrong.

For days, his door never opened. No footsteps. No quiet greeting when you passed by. No lights at night.

On the fourth day, worry finally won.

You stood in front of his door and hesitated, then pulled out your phone and entered the pin for his smart lock. He had given it to you months ago, joking that lawyers forgot to eat, sleep, and sometimes even breathe.

The door unlocked.

The smell hit you first. Old food containers, unwashed dishes, and trash scattered across the floor. The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tight. You stepped inside and flipped on the light.

“Louis?” you called.

There was no answer at first.

You walked further in, your shoes crunching softly against garbage. That was when you saw him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, wrapped tightly in a blanket, shoulders shaking.

“Louis? Are you okay?” you asked, walking closer.

You reached out and touched his forehead. It was burning hot.

“I got high fever,” he said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You sighed softly. “You should have told me.”

He did not reply. His eyes were half closed.

You guided him back onto the bed and tucked the blanket around him properly. He shivered even more.

“I will be right back,” you said.

You cleaned as you went, throwing out trash, opening windows, letting fresh air in. Then you went to your own apartment and cooked soup, something simple and warm. When you returned, Louis was still awake, eyes following you quietly. You helped him sit up.

“Eat slowly,” you said.

You fed him carefully, spoon by spoon. He swallowed with effort but did not complain. After that, you handed him his medicine and a glass of water.

“Thank you,” he said weakly. “Glad I gave my pin door number to you.”

You smiled faintly. “You made the right choice.”

You helped him lie down properly and tucked the blanket around his shoulders. His breathing slowly steadied, and his eyes closed as he fell asleep.

You stayed and continued cleaning his apartment until everything was neat. When you were done, you placed a bottle of water on the small table beside his bed. You dimmed the light and looked down at him quietly.

“Get well soon,” you whispered. As he opened his eyes, his voice came soft and honest.

“Thank you,” he said. “I do not know what I would have done if you did not come.”

You pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders.

“You do not have to know,” you said gently. “Just get better.”