UNTIL THE LAST TENANT

   

These pages were never intended to be read.
They were not submitted.
They were not archived officially.

They remain here because [REDACTED].

ENTRY ONE

I don’t usually write things down.

Not like this. I make lists when I need to. Work notes. Reminders. Things that keep the days in order. But I’ve never kept a journal. There’s never seemed much point. Most of my days are the same — emails, calls, quiet, sleep. When you work from home, time folds in on itself.

Still, something about this place has been bothering me lately. I can’t explain it properly, which is probably why I’ve picked up a pen.

The building is mostly empty now. It wasn’t always. A few years ago there were families here, couples, people who argued through the walls and played music too loud. Then things started to slip. Maintenance stopped keeping up. Leaks in the stairwell that never got fixed. Heating that cut out for days at a time in winter.

People left.

A few didn’t.

Two tenants passed away over the last couple of years. I never knew them well. One was elderly. The other… I’m not sure. There was no real conversation about it. Just notices on the board in the lobby. A quietness where there used to be a door opening now and then.

After that, more flats emptied out.

I stayed.

I don’t mind being alone. I don’t need much. I keep the place clean. Minimal. No clutter. Most days I don’t speak to anyone at all. On the rare occasions I’m called into the office, I exchange the usual pleasantries with a few people — weather, deadlines, how things are going — and then I come back here. It suits me.

The people who are still in the building keep to themselves. Doors shut. Curtains drawn. If you pass someone in the corridor, you nod. That’s it. No one lingers. No one asks questions.

Except for the man in the flat opposite mine.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know anyone’s name here. But I see him sometimes when I take the bins down or check the post. He never speaks. Not rude. Just… distant. Like he’s somewhere else.

The first time I noticed something odd, I told myself I was overthinking it.

He was walking ahead of me toward the stairs when he stopped. Not paused — stopped. Mid-step. One foot lifted slightly off the floor. His shoulders tense, his arms hanging at his sides. I thought maybe he’d dropped something, or realised he’d forgotten his keys.

He stayed like that for a few seconds.

Then he moved again. Finished the step. Continued down the stairs as if nothing had happened.

No apology. No glance back. No sign that he even knew he’d frozen.

I stood there longer than I should have, waiting for him to turn, to acknowledge it, to do anything that would tell me it was normal. He didn’t.

It was nothing, I decided. People have moments. Muscle cramps. Dizzy spells. I went back to my flat and got on with my day.

But I’ve seen it twice more since then.

Once when he was unlocking his door. His hand on the key, his head tilted slightly forward. Another time in the corridor, just standing there as if he’d been placed rather than arrived.

Each time it lasts only a few seconds. Each time he resumes exactly where he left off.

He never reacts. Never seems confused. Never seems to notice.

I’ve started paying attention to things I used to ignore. The way the lights hum in the corridor at night. The way footsteps echo longer than they should. The way the stairwell always feels colder than the flats themselves. Small details you don’t notice when there are people around to distract you.

Nothing dangerous. Nothing dramatic.

Just… slightly wrong.

I suppose that’s why I’m writing this. To have a record of what I’m noticing, even if it turns out to be nothing at all.

If I don’t, I’ll convince myself I imagined it.

And I don’t think I did.