The woman in apartment 3B hadn't left her flat in forty-seven days.

I know because I've been counting.

Not in a creepy way—at least, I don't think so. It's just that when you live directly across from someone in a building where the hallways are narrow and the walls are thin, you notice patterns. The absence of patterns, too.

Her name is Sadie Chen, according to the faded label on her mailbox. Every morning at exactly 7:15, someone delivers a brown paper bag to her door. Groceries, I assume. Medical supplies, maybe. The delivery person knocks twice, waits exactly ten seconds, then leaves. The door opens thirty seconds later—just wide enough for a pale hand to emerge and pull the bag inside.

That's it. That's her entire interaction with the outside world.

This morning, the routine broke.

I was fumbling with my keys, running late for work as usual, when I heard it: music. Not the muffled baseline that usually seeps through apartment walls, but clear, deliberate piano notes floating into the hallway. Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, if I'm not mistaken—my mother used to play it when I was young.

The melody was coming from 3B.

I paused, key halfway into the lock. The playing was exquisite, each note perfectly weighted, the rubato natural and unforced. This wasn't someone practicing. This was someone performing, even if their only audience was the silence of their own apartment.

The music stopped abruptly, mid-phrase.

Then came the sound that changed everything: a single, sharp crack—like ice breaking under pressure.

Followed by a thud.

Then nothing.

I stood there, heart hammering, staring at her door. The brass numbers—3B—suddenly seemed very important, very final. Call someone, a rational part of my brain suggested. The building super. Emergency services. Anyone.

But another part of me, the part that had been counting days and noticing patterns, knew that if I walked away now, I'd never stop wondering.

I knocked. "Hello? Are you okay in there?"

Silence.

I knocked again, harder. "I heard something fall. Do you need help?"

More silence. But this time, I could swear I heard breathing on the other side of the door. Shallow, deliberate breathing.

"I'm going to call for help," I said, pulling out my phone, not entirely bluffing.

The deadbolt clicked.

The chain rattled.

The door opened—not just a crack this time, but wide enough to reveal Sadie Chen herself. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back, wearing a cream-colored cardigan that had seen better days. But it was her eyes that stopped me cold: gray-blue and sharp, with the kind of intelligence that feels like it can see straight through you.

"Don't," she said quietly. Her voice was rough, underused. "Please don't call anyone."

"Are you hurt?"

She glanced down at her left hand, which she'd been holding awkwardly against her side. Blood was seeping through her fingers, staining the cream cardigan crimson.

"It's complicated," she said, and despite the blood, despite the pallor of her skin, she smiled—the kind of smile that suggested she found the entire situation darkly amusing. "But if you really want to help, you could come in. Just for a minute."

Everything in my boring, predictable life told me this was a terrible idea.

I stepped inside anyway.

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