My parents gave me an old one-bedroom apartment. I was weeping with happiness. I did the repairs myself and tried to make it cozy, and my dad helped me. And then finally, when everything was done, I ran out to the stairwell to chat with a neighbor and forgot to close the door. I was away only for five minutes, but when I came back… my heart dropped. The apartment looked different. Not destroyed, not messy—just unfamiliar in a quiet, unsettling way that made my stomach tighten.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then I noticed the small details. The crooked picture frame I hadn’t fixed yet was suddenly straight. The throw blanket I’d folded earlier was neatly draped over the arm of the chair. Even the light felt warmer, as if someone had turned on a lamp I rarely used. Nothing was missing. Nothing was broken. But someone had been there. In my space. In the home I had poured weeks of effort and hope into.
