On city maps, satellite navigation, and every official record, Ivy Apartments is clearly marked as having only 12 floors. But for a handful of people who live there, or who happen to wander in late at night, at certain times, such as during a midnight downpour, when a power failure leaves only the emergency lights flickering, or when they are alone in a stairwell or elevator, an option for a “13th floor” appears out of nowhere on the elevator buttons and stairwell signs.
This floor is no physical level of the building. It is a “psychological space,” slowly woven from the collective fears of everyone who lives in the apartments and fragments of forgotten memories. Like a silent hunter, it quietly swallows anyone who notices it and traps them fast, leaving them with no way out.
