Narin liked to arrive early.

  It gave him time to straighten things that were already straight. He adjusted the angle of chairs in waiting rooms. He wiped fingerprints from glass doors that would be smudged again within minutes. He checked his reflection in dark surfaces and fixed nothing.

  That morning, he arrived at the condo before the coffee shop downstairs opened.

  The lobby lights were on but dimmed. Somchai was behind the desk, filling out a logbook with a pen that scratched softly against paper. He paused every few lines to blow on the ink, even though it dried fast.

  “You’re early,” Somchai said without looking up.

  “I had a showing later,” Narin said. “Thought I would stop by.”

  Somchai nodded. He flipped the page in the book and pressed it flat with his palm.

  “You should wait a bit,” he said. “Elevators are slow today.”

  “That’s fine,” Narin said.

  He leaned against the counter. His phone buzzed once. He glanced at it and turned it face down.

  “Your wife was here yesterday,” Somchai said.

  Narin’s hand stopped moving.

  “She was?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Somchai said. “She stood by the elevators for a while. Didn’t go up or down.”

  “What did she want?” Narin asked.

  Somchai looked up then. He studied Narin’s face like he was checking for something small and easy to miss.

  “She asked if the building keeps records,” he said. “I said yes.”

  “Records of what?”

  Somchai shrugged. “Everything.”

  Narin nodded once.

  “Did she say anything else?” he asked.

  “She asked if mirrors get replaced often,” Somchai said.

  Narin smiled. It came quick and faded just as fast.

  “She worries about strange things,” he said. “She’s pregnant.”

  Somchai wrote another line in the logbook.

  “So she said,” he replied.

  The elevator dinged. The doors opened slowly.

  Narin stepped inside alone.

  The mirror in the back reflected him clearly. His tie was straight. His shirt was pressed. He fixed his collar anyway.

  When the elevator reached the nineteenth floor, the doors opened to an empty hall.

  The lights buzzed overhead. Someone had left a pair of sandals outside their door. They were neatly lined up, toes pointing outward.

  Narin walked to 19B.

  He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The air was cool. Too cool. He reached for the thermostat and turned it up a few degrees. The unit beeped softly in response.

  “May,” he said.

  No answer.

  He set his briefcase down by the table. The folding chairs were still there. The fruit container had been thrown away. The table surface was clean except for a faint ring where something wet had once sat.

  He went into the bedroom.

  The mirror on the closet door reflected the empty room. The bed was made. Too neatly. He pulled the corner of the blanket back slightly, then smoothed it again.

  “May,” he said louder this time.

  He checked the bathroom. The sink was dry. The toothbrush holder was empty on one side.

  He stood there for a moment, listening.

  Nothing.

  Then he heard footsteps behind him.

  He turned.

  A man stood in the doorway.

  He was older than Narin, but not by much. His hair was neat and beginning to gray at the sides. He wore a plain shirt and dark trousers. No shoes. His hands were empty.

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  “Who are you?” Narin asked.

  The man glanced around the unit, as if he had been there before.

  “Some people call me Phum,” he said.

  “How did you get in here?” Narin asked.

  The man shrugged. “You unlocked the door.”

  Narin’s jaw tightened.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This is a private unit.”

  The man nodded. “I know.”

  He walked past Narin and sat down in one of the folding chairs. The chair creaked softly under his weight.

  “Your air conditioning is too cold,” he said. “It makes sounds travel strangely.”

  Narin closed the bathroom door with more force than necessary.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  The man rested his hands on his knees.

  “I’m here because someone spoke,” he said.

  “No one spoke to you,” Narin said.

  The man tilted his head slightly.

  “People speak in different ways,” he said. “Sometimes they don’t know they’re doing it.”

  Narin walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. The tap ran too loud in the quiet room. He filled the glass halfway, then stopped. He drank standing up.

  “Is this about the neighbors?” he asked. “We haven’t done anything.”

  The man watched him.

  “You haven’t done something,” he agreed.

  Narin set the glass down. Water sloshed and spilled over the rim. He wiped it with his sleeve.

  “My wife is tired,” he said. “She’s emotional. She imagines things.”

  “She doesn’t,” the man said.

  Narin laughed softly. “You don’t know her.”

  The man didn’t answer.

  The silence stretched. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. A dog barked once and stopped.

  “Where is she?” the man asked.

  “At home,” Narin said. “She went out.”

  “She didn’t,” the man said.

  Narin’s fingers curled against the counter.

  “You should leave,” he said.

  The man stood up. He walked toward the bedroom, stopping in front of the mirror.

  He looked at his reflection. It looked back.

  “She stands here a lot,” he said. “Did you notice?”

  Narin stayed where he was.

  “She worries about mirrors,” Narin said. “I told you.”

  The man touched the surface of the mirror lightly with his fingertips.

  “She doesn’t appear in them,” he said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Narin said.

  The man turned.

  “She asked you about it,” he said.

  Narin opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “She said she felt strange,” he said finally. “I told her it was normal.”

  The man nodded once.

  “You told her a lot of things were normal,” he said.

  Narin’s phone buzzed on the counter. He ignored it.

  “She was under stress,” he said. “That happens.”

  The man returned to the table and sat down again.

  “Did you hear the sound?” he asked.

  “What sound?” Narin said.

  “The one that doesn’t travel through walls,” the man said.

  Narin laughed again. It came out sharp.

  “There is no sound,” he said. “This building is quiet.”

  The man folded his hands.

  “Everyone hears something different,” he said. “That’s how it works.”

  Narin looked away.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

  The man waited.

  “I provided for her,” Narin continued. “I found us a better place. A higher floor. A better view.”

  He gestured toward the windows.

  “She didn’t like heights,” he added, quieter.

  The man nodded.

  “You told her she would get used to it,” he said.

  “Yes,” Narin said. “And she would have.”

  The man looked at the glass of water on the counter. The spilled ring had dried into a faint outline.

  “Did she ask you to call someone?” he asked.

  Narin’s jaw tightened again.

  “She said she was fine,” he said.

  “She asked,” the man repeated.

  Narin didn’t answer.

  “She said she felt something was wrong,” the man said. “You told her it was anxiety.”

  Narin rubbed his temple with two fingers.

  “I had a meeting,” he said. “I couldn’t just drop everything.”

  The man nodded again.

  “That’s true,” he said. “You didn’t drop everything.”

  They sat there in the cool air. The unit hummed softly around them.

  Finally, Narin spoke.

  “She fell,” he said.

  The words landed flat between them.

  “It was an accident,” he added quickly. “The doctor said so.”

  The man looked at him.

  “Where did she fall?” he asked.

  “In the bathroom,” Narin said. “She slipped.”

  “And you?” the man asked.

  “I was in the other room,” Narin said.

  “Doing what?” the man asked.

  Narin hesitated.

  “On the phone,” he said.

  “With whom?” the man asked.

  Narin didn’t answer.

  The man waited.

  Outside, a siren wailed briefly and faded.

  “I didn’t hear her at first,” Narin said. “The water was running.”

  The man nodded.

  “When you did hear her,” he said, “what did she say?”

  Narin stared at the table.

  “She said my name,” he said.

  “And then?” the man asked.

  Narin swallowed.

  “And then she stopped,” he said.

  The man stood up.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?” Narin asked.

  “For speaking,” the man said.

  “You can’t do anything,” Narin said quickly. “There was an investigation. It was ruled accidental.”

  The man walked toward the door.

  “I don’t punish,” he said. “I only allow what’s already waiting.”

  He opened the door.

  Before stepping out, he turned back.

  “She’s been calling,” he said. “Now you can hear her.”

  He left.

  The door closed softly behind him.

  The room was very quiet.

  Then, from somewhere inside the walls, a baby began to cry.