2
I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. Or what I think happened.
I’d convinced myself by morning that maybe I was dreaming. Some kind of stress-induced fantasy, a release valve for weeks of emotional clutter and s****l frustration. But then I saw the name on the mirror again. It was faint, barely there, but still etched in the fog.
AREN.
And I felt it, deep in my gut, that it hadn’t come from me.
I didn’t unpack. I didn’t explore the city or set up my Wi-Fi. I sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room, my laptop propped on a stack of books while rabbit-holing into every historical blog, property record, and ghost forum I could find.
The building was old. Much older than it looked. It was originally built in 1891 as a boarding house, then converted into apartments some
