The morning starts the way it has started every day since the incident, with Narin waking before his alarm and lying still for a moment while the ceiling fan turns slowly above him, the blades clicking faintly at the same point in every rotation, and he reaches out to silence the alarm before it can ring even though it has not yet gone off.

  He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, his feet finding the cool tile, and he rubs his face with both hands, pressing his palms into his eyes for a second longer than usual before standing and walking to the bathroom.

  The light flicks on and hums softly, and he washes his hands first out of habit, then splashes water on his face, watching it drip from his chin into the sink, and he notices a strand of hair stuck to the porcelain and removes it with his finger, wrapping it in a piece of tissue before throwing it away.

  In the kitchen he fills the kettle and sets it on the stove, the metal clinking lightly as he places it on the burner, and while he waits for it to boil he opens the fridge and stares inside without reaching for anything, his eyes moving from shelf to shelf as if taking inventory.

  The kettle begins to whistle and he turns off the gas, pouring the hot water into a mug with a faded logo from a real estate conference, and he adds a spoonful of instant coffee, stirring until it dissolves, the spoon tapping the sides with small sharp sounds.

  He drinks standing up again, leaning against the counter, and he watches the steam rise from the mug and disappear into the air, and when he finishes he rinses it and sets it upside down on the rack, aligning it carefully with the others.

  His phone lights up with a message from his mother asking if he has been eating properly, and he types back a short reply saying yes and that work is busy, then pockets the phone without reading the follow up that arrives a few seconds later.

  Outside, the hallway is quiet except for the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner somewhere down the floor, and as Narin locks his door he notices the faint mark on the wall near the handle where the paint is slightly darker, and he pauses before turning away, his hand still resting on the lock.

  In the elevator, a young couple stands close together, whispering to each other and glancing at their phones, and when the doors close the woman lowers her voice even more, and Narin looks straight ahead at the numbers lighting up as they descend, his reflection faintly visible in the mirrored wall.

  In the lobby, the security guard nods at him and says good morning, and Narin returns the greeting, his voice even, and he steps outside where the heat already presses down, the smell of street food mixing with exhaust fumes.

  He walks toward the bus stop, his shoes scuffing slightly on the pavement, and he stops at a stall to buy a plastic bag of soy milk and a fried dough stick, handing over exact change and thanking the vendor, who smiles and asks if business is good these days.

  He says it is fine and steps aside, taking a bite of the dough stick, the oil leaving a sheen on his fingers, and he wipes his hands on a napkin before throwing it away.

  On the bus, he stands holding the overhead strap, swaying slightly as the vehicle lurches forward, and he looks out the window at familiar streets passing by, shops opening their shutters, people sweeping sidewalks, a woman carrying a basket of laundry on her hip.

  His phone buzzes again and he opens a message from Dao asking if he has seen the latest posts and whether he thinks they should lay low for a while, and he types a reply saying it is probably nothing and that people forget quickly, then deletes it and writes instead that he is busy today and they can talk later.

  She replies almost immediately with a short okay and a smiling emoji, and he locks the screen and slips the phone back into his pocket.

  At the office, the air conditioning hums and the smell of cleaning solution lingers, and Narin sits at his desk and opens his laptop, checking emails and updating listings, his fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.

  His colleague stops by with a cup of coffee and leans against the partition, asking if he heard that management is considering a rebranding campaign for the condo, and Narin nods and says it might be necessary given the circumstances, and his colleague laughs lightly and says ghosts are bad for business.

  They talk about other things, about a client who cannot decide and about rising interest rates, and Narin listens and responds when appropriate, his gaze occasionally drifting to the window where clouds are gathering.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Around noon, he eats lunch at his desk, a box of rice and stir fried pork that has gone slightly cold, and he eats slowly, picking at the vegetables and leaving the fatty pieces, and when he finishes he wipes the container clean before putting it in his bag to take home.

  In another part of the building, the afternoon guard shifts in his chair and adjusts the angle of one of the monitors, zooming in slightly on the hallway outside Narin’s unit, then zooming back out, his hand lingering on the mouse.

  He takes a sip from his water bottle and sets it down carefully, and he opens a drawer and takes out a small notebook, flipping through pages filled with notes and time stamps, and he stops at one entry and taps the pen against the paper twice before closing it.

  On Floor 19, Ploy steps out of her apartment carrying a bag of trash, and she walks quickly to the chute, dropping the bag in and listening to it fall, the sound fading slowly, and she stands there for a moment longer than necessary before heading back.

  She unlocks her door and goes to the kitchen, washing her hands thoroughly, rubbing soap between her fingers and under her nails, and she dries them on a towel that smells faintly of detergent.

  She prepares dinner early, chopping vegetables and marinating fish, and she keeps glancing toward the hallway, pausing when she hears footsteps or voices, then resuming when the sounds pass.

  As evening approaches, Narin leaves the office and stops by a convenience store, buying bottled water and a ready made meal, and he pays and steps outside, the plastic bag rustling in his hand.

  He walks back toward the condo, his pace unhurried, and as he enters the lobby he notices a small group of residents gathered near the notice board, talking quietly, and he slows slightly as he passes, catching fragments of conversation about inspections and safety and whether management is hiding something.

  In the elevator, he rides alone this time, the car rising smoothly, and he watches the numbers climb, his reflection clearer now in the polished metal, and he adjusts his tie even though it is already straight.

  When he reaches his floor, the hallway lights are on, casting an even glow, and he walks toward his apartment, his footsteps echoing softly, and he stops when he hears a sound from inside his unit, a faint thud like something being set down.

  He unlocks the door and steps inside, closing it behind him, and the apartment is quiet, the air still, and he sets his bag down on the counter and takes off his shoes, placing them neatly by the door.

  He heats his meal in the microwave and eats at the small dining table, sitting in the same chair he always uses, and he chews slowly, his eyes on the empty chair across from him.

  He remembers how May used to sit there, her hands resting on her stomach, absentmindedly rubbing small circles as she talked about her day, and he looks away, focusing instead on the pattern in the table surface, a small scratch near the edge that he traces with his finger.

  After dinner, he washes the dishes and wipes the counter, his movements methodical, and he takes out the trash, tying the bag tightly before setting it by the door.

  He sits on the sofa and turns on the television, flipping through channels without really watching, and he stops on a news segment about urban living, the anchor’s voice calm and detached.

  His phone buzzes again, and this time it is a missed call from an unknown number, and he stares at it for a moment before setting the phone face down on the table.

  In the security office, the guard’s phone rings, and he answers it quietly, listening as someone from management asks about the footage from the night of the incident, and he says it has already been submitted, his voice flat.

  He hangs up and looks at the monitors again, his eyes lingering on the time stamp displayed in the corner, and he rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  Later that night, as Narin prepares for bed, brushing his teeth and setting his clothes out for the next day, he moves with the same care he always has, folding and arranging, and he turns off the lights one by one, leaving the bedroom lamp on.

  He sits on the edge of the bed and checks his phone again, scrolling through messages and notifications, and he pauses when he sees a missed call from the hospital dated weeks ago, the notification he never opened, and his thumb hovers over it.

  He does not tap it. He locks the screen and sets the phone on the bedside table, face down.

  He lies back and stares at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the building, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional elevator ding, and his breathing slows.

  His mind drifts back to that night, the way May’s voice sounded when she called him from the bathroom, strained and confused, and how he had stood in the doorway, his phone in his hand, telling her to sit down and that it was probably nothing, that she was overreacting, that he would finish his call first.

  He remembers how she had slid down to the floor, her back against the wall, her hand pressing against her stomach, and how she had asked him if they should go to the hospital, and how he had said to wait, to see if it passed, because ambulances were expensive and hospitals were crowded and it was probably false labor.

  He had watched her breathe, counted the seconds between her gasps, and told himself he would call if it got worse, and when it did he told himself it was already too late, that panicking would not help, that she needed to calm down.

  He had never dialed the number.

  The room is quiet now, and Narin turns onto his side, pulling the blanket up, and he closes his eyes.