The day begins the way many days do in the building, with the sound of water running through pipes that echo faintly through the walls, and with doors opening and closing at careful angles as people step into the hallway carrying bags of trash or folded umbrellas, their faces still half asleep.

  On floor nineteen, the cleaning woman pushes her cart slowly along the corridor, stopping every few steps to straighten a mat or wipe a smudge from the wall, and she hums to herself as she works, a tune without words that rises and falls with the squeak of the cart wheels.

  She pauses outside one unit and checks the number on the door twice, then bends to pick up a small flyer that has slipped under it, smoothing the paper against her thigh before tucking it back into place.

  Inside that unit, Narin stands in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee that has gone untouched long enough for a skin to form on the surface, and he stirs it with a spoon just to break the stillness, listening to the clink against ceramic.

  He has not slept much, and when he did sleep it was shallow, interrupted by the sound of something falling in another apartment or the distant buzz of a phone vibrating through a wall, and he feels it now in the way his shoulders sag as he leans against the counter.

  He opens a drawer and takes out a clean cloth, wiping the counter even though it is already clean, his hand moving back and forth in short strokes that stop just shy of the edge.

  In the living room, his phone lights up with a notification from a real estate group chat, messages stacking one after another about listings and viewings and market trends, and he watches them appear without opening any of them.

  Down the hall, Ploy sits on the floor of her apartment folding laundry while the television murmurs in the background, and she pauses every so often to glance toward the door as if listening for something, her hands resting on a stack of shirts that smell faintly of detergent.

  She folds a baby sized shirt that does not belong to her, one she found mixed in with her things after using the shared machine, and she smooths it carefully before setting it aside, unsure what to do with it.

  In the security office, the guard pours hot water over instant noodles and stirs them with a plastic fork, his eyes on the monitor where the hallway cameras show people moving through their routines, and he eats standing up, careful not to drip on the desk.

  He rewinds a clip and watches it again, then again, stopping at the same moment each time, his finger hovering over the keyboard as if waiting for permission from someone who is not there.

  Back in Narin’s apartment, the air feels thick, and he opens a window slightly, letting in the sound of traffic and a neighbor’s radio playing softly somewhere below.

  He sits at the dining table and opens a notebook he has not used in years, flipping through blank pages until he reaches the middle, and he picks up a pen, holding it loosely between his fingers.

  He stares at the page for a long time without writing, then presses the tip down and makes a small mark, lifting it again as if startled by the sound.

  In another unit on the same floor, Dao sits on her bed with her phone propped up on a stand, adjusting the angle of the camera while a ring light hums softly, and she applies lip gloss with careful precision.

  She checks her reflection on the screen, tilting her head left and right, and when she smiles she pauses, watching the smile linger longer than it should before fading.

  She lowers the phone and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, smearing makeup slightly, then fixes it again, her movements quick and practiced.

  Her phone buzzes with a message, and she reads it without responding, setting the phone face down on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

  In the hallway, the cleaning woman finishes her floor and presses the elevator button, leaning on her cart as she waits, and when the doors open she steps inside with a sigh, rubbing her lower back.

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  As the elevator descends, she closes her eyes briefly, and when it stops again she opens them and steps out, pushing her cart toward the exit without looking back.

  Back upstairs, Narin finally writes something in the notebook, the pen moving slowly, forming letters that are uneven and slightly shaky.

  He writes a name, then stops, crossing it out with a single line, then writes it again beneath, pressing harder this time.

  He closes the notebook and sets it aside, then stands and walks toward the bedroom, opening the closet and pulling out a box from the top shelf, dust falling as he lowers it to the floor.

  He sits cross legged and opens the box, lifting out items one by one, a scarf folded neatly, a book with a bent spine, a small plastic bag containing hospital paperwork.

  He touches each thing briefly, setting it beside him in a growing pile, and when he reaches the bottom of the box he finds a folded piece of paper that he unfolds carefully.

  It is a list written in neat handwriting, groceries and reminders and appointments, and he reads it slowly, his lips moving silently over each word.

  In the margin, there is a name written smaller, almost as an afterthought, and he traces it with his finger.

  Outside his door, footsteps approach and then stop, and there is a pause before a knock sounds, soft but steady.

  Narin looks up, his hand still resting on the paper, and he does not answer right away.

  The knock comes again, and he stands, brushing dust from his pants, and walks to the door, opening it a few inches.

  Khun Phum stands in the hallway, his expression calm, his hands empty this time, and he inclines his head slightly.

  May I come in, he asks.

  Narin steps aside without speaking, and Khun Phum removes his shoes and enters, glancing briefly at the items spread across the floor before taking a seat on the edge of the sofa.

  They sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the air conditioner and the distant noise of someone laughing on another floor.

  I found something, Narin says finally, holding up the paper.

  Khun Phum looks at it without reaching for it, then nods once.

  What is her name, he asks.

  Narin swallows and looks down at the paper again.

  May, he says.

  Khun Phum waits.

  Her name is May, Narin says again, louder this time, and he sets the paper down on the table between them.

  Khun Phum closes his eyes briefly, then opens them and looks at Narin.

  Say it again, he says.

  Her name was May, Narin says, his voice steady now.

  In the hallway outside, Ploy steps out of her apartment carrying the baby shirt, and she hesitates before walking toward Narin’s door, stopping a few feet away.

  She listens, hearing voices but not the words, and she sets the shirt down on a chair outside his door before returning to her unit.

  In the security office, the guard finishes his noodles and wipes his mouth with a napkin, then deletes a file from the computer, watching the confirmation message disappear before leaning back in his chair.

  Back in the apartment, Khun Phum stands and walks toward the window, looking out at the city below, his reflection faintly visible in the glass.

  She was not just a body, he says quietly. She was a person with a name.

  Narin nods, his gaze fixed on the table.

  I forgot, he says. Or I tried to.

  Khun Phum turns back toward him.

  Forgetting does not erase it, he says.

  Narin presses his palms together, then separates them, resting them on his knees.

  I know, he says.

  Khun Phum picks up the paper and folds it carefully, then places it back on the table.

  It is enough for now, he says.

  Narin looks up. Enough for what.

  Khun Phum does not answer directly. He walks toward the door and puts on his shoes, adjusting them with care.

  As he opens the door, he pauses and looks back.

  She remembers now, he says.

  Then he steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him, the sound soft but final.

  Narin stands alone in the apartment, the items from the box still spread across the floor, and he sinks down onto the carpet, picking up the paper again and holding it against his chest.

  In the quiet that follows, a sound begins to travel through the walls, faint at first, then clearer, the sound of a baby crying somewhere nearby.

  It comes from the apartment, from the space where the air feels heavier, and it does not stop.