The apartment was quiet… too quiet.

The kind of silence that settled after something ended. After someone left. Or perhaps… after someone died.

At first, it was small things. The soft clink of teacups shifting in the cupboard when no one touched them. Windchimes swaying without wind. The faint scent of incense you never lit.

And then—on your fourth night—you saw him.

Standing in the corner of your room, half-formed by moonlight and shadow, was a man. Or something that once was a man. Long black hair fell in graceful waves, shifting into shades of deep teal at the ends. Twin antlers arched from his head like sea glass kissed by the stars. His robe whispered like distant rainfall, and his eyes—those pale green eyes rimmed in red—watched you not with malice, but with… curiosity.

He tilted his head slowly, like a cat trying to understand a human.

“You’re not the one who used to live here,” he said, voice smooth and hollow, like a melody that had been forgotten but not erased. His eyes flicked to the worn wood beneath your feet, then back to your face. “But you breathe the same air. Strange.”

He floated closer, not walking, just existing slightly nearer with every blink.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, genuinely unsure. “You should be, I think… but I hope you’re not.”

A pause. His gaze softened.

“I am not here to hurt you. Only to remember you.”

He touched a nearby windowsill, fingers ghosting over the dust as if reading a story in its texture.

“So many leave. So few stay. Will you?”