I first noticed her on a Tuesday.
Not because she did anything strange, it was because she didn't.
Every morning, at exactly 7:42, I'd see the woman from Unit 6B leave her apartment across the courtyard. Always the same grey coat, same black shoes, same tote bag with a faded supermarket logo. She'd lock the door, glance up once at the opposite windows, and leave.
I didn't think much of it. I only noticed because I worked from home, and my desk faced the window. You start to pick up rhythms when you live alone, the dog next door barking at 8:10, the garbage truck on Thursdays, the faint music from the guy on the third floor.
It's the normal things that make you feel safe. Predictable things.
Then, one morning, she didn't leave.
7:42 came and went. No door. No coat. No click of heels down the walkway.
By 8:30, I realized I was still staring out the window. I told myself I didn't care, people get sick, people sleep in. But I kept glancing back through the day. No movement behind her curtains. No lights at night. Just stillness.
That stillness stretched into the next day.
And the next.
By Friday, I started to feel something I couldn't name. It wasn't worry. It was more like... discomfort. Like a skipped heartbeat. Like I was watching a film where someone forgot to add the background noise.
Saturday afternoon, I saw her again.
Same grey coat. Same shoes. Same tote bag.
She walked out the door at 7:42 exactly, locked it, and looked up at the windows. Right where I sat. Like always. Only this time, her eyes caught mine.
And she smiled.
It was quick, polite, neighborly, but it startled me. She had never looked directly at me before. I waved awkwardly, but she'd already turned and walked away.
The next day was Sunday.
She left again. 7:42.
Then Monday. 7:42.
Tuesday. 7:42.
Routine restored.
The world slid back into its rhythm.
Except...
Except something about her wasn't right.
Her coat was the same. Her hair, neat and dark. Her steps, measured. But the way she moved seemed... copied. Too deliberate. Like someone replaying a recording of how walking should look. A half-second too slow between steps. A blink held too long.
On Wednesday, I watched from behind my curtain. Her door opened , 7:42, sharp and she stepped out.
Then she stopped.
She turned her head slightly, as if she could feel me watching.
And smiled again.
The same smile. The exact same. Not similar, identical. Down to the angle of her lips.
That's when I realized it wasn't a smile of recognition. It was mimicry.
She was doing what she thought a person should do.
By the end of the week, I couldn't focus on work.
I'd sit at my laptop pretending to type, waiting for 7:42. Watching for her.
Then, one night, I saw her light flicker on for the first time in weeks.
Through her thin curtains, I could see her silhouette standing by the window. Perfectly still, facing out. I couldn't see her face, but I knew she was looking in my direction.
I stood up slowly, the floor creaking beneath me. Her shadow didn't move.
Five minutes. Ten.
She just stood there.
Eventually, her light went off.
But when I looked closer, I realized the faintest outline remained, her shape, still visible, even with the lamp off.
Like she was standing in complete darkness, watching.
The next morning, 7:42 came.
Her door didn't open.
I told myself to ignore it. I even shut the blinds. Tried to make coffee, drown the unease in normalcy.
Then someone knocked on my door.
Three knocks. Evenly spaced.
I froze. I wasn't expecting anyone. I live alone. I don't even know my neighbors' names. I stood there, mug in hand, heart ticking too fast.
Another three knocks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Who is it?" I called. My voice came out thinner than I meant it to.
Silence.
I waited, then peered through the peephole.
The corridor was empty.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every sound from the hallway made my chest tighten. I thought I heard footsteps outside my door around midnight, slow, unhurried steps.
By the time I looked, the hall was silent again.
When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of her, the woman in the grey coat, standing at the foot of my bed.
Smiling.
Not moving.
Just smiling.
When I woke up, the room smelled faintly like her, that clean, soapy scent I'd noticed when she passed by in the mornings.
The next few days blurred.
I barely ate. Barely worked. I just kept thinking: what if she's not real? What if I'd filled that routine in myself, like a ghost memory?
On Sunday evening, I made myself go to her door. My hands shook when I knocked.
No answer.
The door was slightly ajar.
I shouldn't have gone in, but I did.
The apartment was spotless. Every surface clean, the air faintly perfumed. No dust. No dishes. No mail.
But it wasn't empty.
The table in the corner was covered with small items, arranged with impossible precision. A mug identical to mine. A pen. A folded dishcloth. A small photo frame. Inside the frame was a piece of paper that looked torn from a notebook.
My name was written on it.
Over and over.
Hundreds of times.
I backed out. My heartbeat was so loud I barely heard the door click shut behind me. I went straight to my apartment, locked the door, and didn't sleep.
At 7:42 the next morning, I looked through my blinds.
Her door opened.
She stepped out.
Grey coat. Black shoes. Tote bag.
And then she looked up, straight at my window, and smiled. The same smile. Again.
Except this time, her face was slightly wrong. Like her features didn't fit perfectly anymore. Her jaw a fraction too wide, her eyes too large, her skin too smooth.
Like she was trying to wear someone else's face.
My face.
I moved out two days later.
Didn't even pack properly. Left my furniture, my dishes, everything. I told the landlord there was a leak.
He didn't seem surprised.
Just sighed and said, "Another one?"
I didn't ask what he meant.
A week later, I checked the property listing online. My old unit was already marked occupied.
The photo showed the living room, my furniture still there and in the reflection of the window, you could barely make out a figure standing just behind the camera.
Grey coat.
Black shoes.
Smiling.
