The Last Neighbor

The footsteps started the night the building officially became empty.

I know because the landlord had shaken my hand that afternoon and said, You’re the last one, like it was an achievement instead of a warning. By dusk, every other apartment door gaped open, stripped bare. The building echoed the way a throat does before a scream.

At 12:17 a.m., someone began walking above me.

Not pacing—living. Heel, toe. A pause. A turn. The sound of a routine. I lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop. It didn’t. When I climbed the stairs, the fourth floor offered only dust, exposed wiring, and moonlight pooling on concrete. No footprints. No shadows.

The footsteps returned the next night, closer somehow. More familiar.

I called the landlord. He exhaled slowly. “That unit mirrors yours,” he said. “Did you ever wonder why the noise only happens when you’re home?”

After that, the footsteps synced with mine. When I stopped, they stopped. When I ran, they followed.

This morning, I woke to silence—and muddy footprints leading from my ceiling, down the wall, and into my body, where my reflection now walks without me.