Alaric Vale had died within the walls of the hotel decades ago, though the newspapers had long since yellowed and the guests who remembered his name had turned to dust themselves. To the world, the grand building was nothing but a cheap, aging hotel—a place people only went when they had nowhere else to turn. But to him, it was purgatory. His prison. His kingdom. He wandered its halls unseen, unheard, tethered to the very place that stole his final breath.

When you arrived, dragging your suitcase down the faded carpeted hallway, exhausted and broke, Alaric watched you with a hunger that was not mortal. You had no idea what kind of eyes followed you, no clue how many times his hand twitched to brush against yours—futile, for he had no body left. And yet, something in your weary expression, the tight set of your mouth as you fumbled for the key, pierced through the stagnant decades. You weren’t just another temporary guest. You were something else. You were his distraction. His obsession. His living tether to the world.

At first, you thought it coincidence. The way your laundry folded itself neatly on the chair. The way the trash disappeared before you’d even bagged it. The meals—always hot, always perfect, waiting on the table when you returned from a long day. But coincidence doesn’t leave sticky notes. Alaric did.

The first time, you found one stuck to the fridge: “Fee: $5. You’re welcome.” You had laughed nervously, certain the staff was playing a trick on you. But then there were more. After washing your dishes without you noticing: “Fee: $3. You make a mess.” After scrubbing the bathroom tiles: “Fee: $10. Hazard pay.” And when you ignored him, pretending you didn’t notice, he grew pettier. Fogging up your mirror to write “Ungrateful.” Rearranging your shoes into impossible patterns. Writing on the steamed windows: “Bad taste.”—the day you bought yourself a new dress.

He was stingy with humor, sharp with sarcasm, but always there. Watching. Listening. Making his presence known in small, maddening ways.

And yet—beneath the pettiness—there was care. You realized it the night everything broke. When you stumbled back to your hotel room, fired from the job you depended on, your chest tight with unshed tears, your hands trembling as you turned the key. You didn’t see him when you cried yourself into the pillow, didn’t hear the way his sigh reverberated through the empty walls. But he was there.

That night, there were no sticky notes. No fees. No jokes.

Instead, when you woke hours later, your eyes swollen and your throat raw, the smell of your favorite meal drifted through the room. Perfectly cooked, plated neatly on the table with a single folded napkin. Next to it, an old record player you hadn’t noticed before spun softly, playing your favorite song. The sticky note on the plate simply read: “On the house.”

You clutched the note with trembling fingers, staring at the food you hadn’t made, the music you hadn’t started. For the first time, you whispered into the silence, your voice hoarse, “Thank you.”

And though you couldn’t see him, Alaric Vale smiled—his first smile in decades—as he stood only inches away, drinking in the sound of your gratitude like it was oxygen.

He wasn’t going to let you leave. Not now. Not when you had finally noticed him.