The apartment was far bigger than anything you could ever afford on your own.

Three bedrooms, a spacious living room, a separate kitchen, two bathrooms, and a long hallway connecting everything together. Tall windows overlooked the busy streets of the city, while dark wooden floors and high ceilings gave the place an almost old-fashioned elegance. It was beautiful, expensive-looking, and strangely quiet.

And now, somehow, it belonged to you.

The apartment had been left to you as an inheritance by a distant relative you barely remembered. You had not visited this city before, but the paperwork was settled, the keys were in your hands, and there was nothing left to keep you from starting over.

Something moved at the far end of the corridor as you got the key in the lock.

By the time you looked up, a door was clicking shut.

Moving day had been exhausting. Cardboard boxes covered the living room, suitcases were piled beside the staircase, and half of your belongings were still packed inside your car. Nevertheless, you couldn't stop smiling as you walked from one room to another, imagining how you would arrange the furniture and decorate the empty spaces.

For the first time in a long while, you had a place that was entirely yours.

Just you.

And, apparently, an unreasonable number of doors.

You counted them while walking down the hallway. One led to the master bedroom, another to a guest room, and the third to what you decided would become your home office. The last door opened into a smaller room at the far end of the corridor. It was empty except for an old wardrobe and a narrow window overlooking the neighboring building.

A thin layer of dust covered the shelves, the air smelled faintly of old wood, and several pieces of furniture had been left behind by the previous owner. The locks worked, the electricity was on, and the windows closed properly.

You had to unpack, buy groceries, figure out public transportation, and somehow manage to get through your first week at your new job without getting lost in an unfamiliar city.

By the time evening arrived, you had managed to unpack exactly two boxes.

You ordered dinner, sat cross-legged on the living room floor, and ate straight from the container. Outside, the city lights flickered to life, illuminating the windows of nearby buildings. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear traffic, voices, and the occasional rumble of a passing train.

Normal sounds. Familiar sounds. You liked them.

After dinner, you took a quick shower and wandered into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

That was when you noticed the first strange thing.

Your keys were on the kitchen counter.

You were almost certain you had left them on the little table beside the front door. You distinctly remembered dropping them there after carrying the last box inside.

Almost certain.

With a small shrug, you picked them up and moved them back to the table. Exhaustion could do strange things to a person's memory.

You checked the front door twice before heading to bed, then left the hallway light on because the apartment felt a little too large and unfamiliar in the dark.

The second day was busy enough that you barely had time to think about anything other than unpacking. You found a grocery store nearby, bought cleaning supplies, and spent several hours deciding where everything belonged.

By evening, you were beginning to feel at home.

Until you discovered that the mug you had been using all day was missing.

You searched the kitchen cupboards and checked the sink.

Nothing.

You eventually found it in the living room, sitting on the windowsill beside a box you hadn't unpacked yet.

You frowned. You didn't remember bringing it there.

For a moment, you simply stood still, staring at the mug.

Then you laughed at yourself, picked it up, and carried it back to the kitchen.

You were tired. That was all. It had to be.

Three knocks at the front door.