Dao woke up late because she had forgotten to charge her phone, which meant the alarm did not go off and the room stayed quiet longer than she liked, and when she opened her eyes the first thing she noticed was the light coming through the curtains in a way that made the room look unfamiliar, as if the furniture had been nudged slightly overnight and put back without care.

  She lay still for a minute, listening to the building wake up around her, the sound of a toilet flushing somewhere above her, a door slamming two floors down, the distant cough of a motorcycle starting on the street, and she reached for the phone on the bedside table before remembering it was dead, so she let her hand rest there instead, fingers touching the cold glass.

  When she finally sat up, her head felt thick, not painful, just slow, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, steadying herself with a hand on the wall while she waited for the feeling to pass.

  In the bathroom, she turned on the light and looked at herself in the mirror, leaning forward to check the dark half circles under her eyes, tilting her head to see if the angle helped, then pulling her hair back with one hand while the other reached for the toothbrush.

  She brushed slowly, watching the foam gather at the corners of her mouth, and as she spat and rinsed she noticed that her reflection did not follow right away, not by much, just enough that she paused with the water still running, staring until the image caught up and matched her again.

  She turned off the tap and stood there, lips pressed together, then shrugged and reached for a towel, telling herself she was tired and that tired people saw things all the time.

  In the kitchen, she made coffee without turning on the overhead light, letting the small lamp by the sink do the work, and as the machine hummed she scrolled through her phone, replying to comments she had missed overnight, liking a few posts from people she barely remembered meeting, and saving a video about morning routines that she told herself she would try tomorrow.

  The coffee finished dripping, and she poured it into her favorite mug, the one with the chipped handle, careful not to spill because she had already stained the counter once and the cleaner had complained, and she drank it standing up, eyes half on the screen and half on the window, where the condo across the street reflected her own building back at her in pieces.

  By late morning, she had showered, dressed, and set up her filming space in the living room, moving the ring light an inch to the left, then back to the right, adjusting the height until the light hit her face evenly, and she tested the angle with her phone, smiling, then relaxing her mouth, then smiling again.

  She filmed a short video about skincare, speaking in the calm, friendly tone she had practiced, pausing when a car horn blared outside, then starting again without acknowledging it, and when she watched it back she frowned slightly at the way her eyes seemed to drift to the side as if something off screen had caught her attention.

  She re filmed the video and posted the second take.

  Around noon, there was a knock at her door.

  She opened it to find Narin standing there, holding a small paper bag from the bakery downstairs, his hair still damp from the shower, his expression flat in the way she had learned not to take personally.

  “I brought buns,” he said, holding the bag out.

  She stepped aside to let him in, and he walked straight to the kitchen counter, setting the bag down and pulling out two pastries, one with custard and one with red bean, placing them on plates without asking which she wanted.

  They ate standing up, not touching, the only sound between them the soft tearing of bread and the hum of the refrigerator.

  “People are talking again,” Dao said, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

  “About what,” Narin said.

  “The condo,” she said. “There are posts everywhere.”

  He shrugged.

  “There are always posts,” he said.

  She watched his face as he spoke, looking for something, but his eyes stayed calm, focused on the plate, and when he finished eating he folded the napkin carefully and set it aside.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  She nodded, and he left without kissing her.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  After the door closed, she stood in the kitchen for a long moment, then picked up the plates and washed them, scrubbing longer than necessary, as if the porcelain had something stuck to it that would not come off.

  That afternoon, the crying returned.

  Dao first heard it while she was on a call with a brand manager, discussing timelines and deliverables, nodding along as the woman spoke, and she almost missed it because it was faint and she had one earbud in, but when she pulled it out the sound grew clearer, a thin, uneven wail that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  “I’m sorry,” Dao said into the phone. “Can you repeat that.”

  The woman repeated herself, and Dao tried to focus, but the sound kept slipping in between the words, rising and falling, and when the call ended she sat back on the couch and listened, counting the seconds between each cry.

  She stood and walked toward the hallway, pressing her ear to the wall that bordered the neighboring unit, then to the door, then to the floor, feeling faintly ridiculous as she did it.

  The crying stopped.

  She laughed under her breath and went back to the living room, telling herself she needed to get out more.

  Later, while scrolling through the condo forum, she saw a new post.

  Two reflections in the mirror. Anyone else?

  She clicked it, heart beating faster than she liked.

  The post was short.

  I swear my reflection lagged. Just for a second. Probably stress.

  There were already replies.

  Sleep more.

  Change your lighting.

  This building is cursed lol.

  Dao closed the app and set her phone face down on the table.

  In the bathroom that evening, she stood in front of the mirror again, holding her phone up to film a story, the light bright and even, her face smooth and composed.

  She smiled, and the reflection smiled back.

  She lowered the phone.

  She smiled again.

  This time, the reflection stayed still.

  It was only for a moment, but it was long enough that her smile faltered, and when the reflection finally moved it did so quickly, almost too quickly, as if trying to catch up.

  Dao stepped back, heart pounding, and reached for the sink with one hand, fingers curling around the edge until her knuckles turned white.

  She turned off the light and left the bathroom without filming.

  That night, she dreamed of mirrors lined up in a hallway, each one reflecting her from a slightly different angle, some older, some younger, some with their eyes closed, and when she woke up she could not remember how the dream ended.

  The next morning, she found a message in her inbox from a follower she did not recognize.

  Do you live in the condo with the baby?

  She stared at the message for a long time before replying.

  No, she typed, then erased it, then typed, What baby?

  The follower never responded.

  Downstairs, Somchai listened to the monitors and drank his coffee, now cold, watching Floor 19 as he always did, noting the times when doors opened and closed, writing them down in a small notebook he kept in the drawer.

  At 3:11 a.m., the crying began again.

  At 3:19 a.m., it stopped.

  At 3:27 a.m., the elevator stopped on Floor 19, though no one had pressed the button.

  Somchai did not call anyone this time.

  He simply wrote it down.

  By the end of the week, Dao had stopped filming in the bathroom altogether, moving her setup to the living room, then to the bedroom, adjusting the lights so that no reflective surfaces were in frame, and she told her followers she was trying a more natural look, laughing as she said it, though her hands shook slightly as she adjusted the camera.

  She began to avoid mirrors, covering the one in the hallway with a scarf, turning her face away from the elevator walls, and when she had to look, she did so quickly, not giving the reflection time to do anything unexpected.

  Narin noticed.

  “You look tired,” he said one evening, standing by the window, phone in hand.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “You should sleep more,” he said.

  She did not answer.

  That night, as she lay in bed, the crying started again, louder this time, closer, and she sat up, heart racing, listening as it rose and fell, feeling it vibrate through the walls.

  She stood and walked to the bathroom, stopping in front of the mirror without turning on the light.

  In the dim glow from the hallway, she could just make out her own shape, pale and blurred.

  She leaned closer.

  The reflection leaned closer too.

  For a moment, they matched.

  Then the reflection raised its hand.

  Dao did not.

  She stepped back, breath catching in her throat, and the reflection stayed where it was, hand still raised, eyes fixed on her with an expression that was not quite hers.

  From the hallway, the crying cut off abruptly.

  The reflection lowered its hand and spoke, its mouth moving in time with the sound of a voice that did not come from Dao.

  “You heard it too,” it said.

  Dao stood frozen, her back pressed against the doorframe, and when she opened her mouth to speak nothing came out.

  The reflection looked at her calmly.

  “It is not mine,” it said.