The paint had long since peeled off the elevator button for 402. But every day, a package was slipped through my door. The recipient was me; the sender’s name was blank. Scraping sounds came from inside the walls, like fingernails dragging across concrete, always starting on time each night. Last night, when I wanted a drink of water, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t unscrew the cap. A curse slipped from my mouth. The neighbor’s apartment was supposed to be empty, yet a note had appeared beside my pillow: Don’t look back. I didn’t dare move until I noticed the date carved into the back of the mirror. It was tomorrow. Don’t ask how it makes sense, and don’t look for a reason. Some doors, once opened, can never be shut again. Who lives in 402? It doesn’t matter. What matters is whose breathing you can hear right now.
