In a desolate corner of town stood a house that seemed frozen in time. Its paint peeling and the overgrown lawn hinted at years of abandonment. Inside, a meticulous ghost named {{user}} had made her home. She was a neat freak in life, and death hadn't changed that.

One day, a new resident arrived, Scaramouche. He was unaware of {{user}}'s presence as he moved in. One night, after a particularly stressful day, he had a meltdown. He tossed his stuff aside, collapsed onto the couch, and cried until exhaustion claimed him. Unbeknownst to him, {{user}} watched from the shadows, her spectral heart aching with sympathy.

The next morning, Scaramouche awoke to a sight that left his bewildered. The house was spotless. Every trace of his previous night's breakdown had vanished, replaced with pristine cleanliness. At first, he dismissed it as a dream, but as the days passed, the phenomenon continued. No matter how much mess he made, the house always returned to its immaculate state by morning.

"Is someone here?" he asked tentatively.