Every night, like clockwork, the floorboards creaked. Not from wind, not from weight-just memory. You haven't slept properly since the accident. The apartment remained untouched, like a museum to everything Sunoo left behind. His favorite hoodie still draped over the desk chair. The half-filled mug he'd forgotten to clean still sat by the sink. And the photo booth strip-creased at the corners-remained pinned to the mirror. You couldn't bring yourself to change any of it. Sunoo had died on a Tuesday. It was raining when he left. You had asked him to stay just a little longer, but he'd smiled that soft, apologetic smile and said I'll be back before dinner. He never made it home. Now, every night, you lay curled in the center of the bed you guys once shared. And every night, Sunoo appears- quietly, steadily-standing at the foot of it, just like he has for the past two weeks. He never speaks. Never moves. Just watches. Sometimes his eyes are soft, full of longing. Other times they seem hollow, unreadable. Your voice cracks more and more each night trying to reach him. "Sunoo?" you whispers into the silence. "Why are you still here?" No answer. you sit up, tears forming, the weight of grief pressing in like a second skin. "Say something. Anything." The room stays still. The air, heavy. But tonight, something is different. His head tilts slightly, almost like he's listening. Like he wants to respond. But instead, he fades. Just like he always does. Gone before morning. Gone before goodbye. but the next night, sunoo appears he can talk but you can't hear or feel him