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Dear Cooper, by the time you read this message, I will be married. Funny, isn't it? I can hardly believe it myself, but if I tell you how it happened, you'll see it's even funnier!
He sighed, deleted the message, and put the phone back on the bedside table in the small room.
He had not slept well that night. In fact, he had not slept well for several weeks. He felt sleep take possession of his inexplicably tired body, but as the light went out and the room plunged into darkness, it was as if the fatigue disappeared altogether, leaving him in a state of anxiety filled with short bouts of sleep, made up of continuous tossing in the sheets and feverish dreams that made him open his eyes again, confused and frightened.
But that night, the eve of his wedding, he made an effort. He didn't want Kurt to find him at the altar with dark circles under his eyes and grayish skin!
Since one a.m., when his boyfriend had left, he had gone to bed and really tried to sleep, but he ended up only sleeping badly, brooding instead. He hoped that once he got up at seven, coffee would invigorate him a little.
He spent almost an hour in front of the cup. He was hungry, but he told himself it would make more sense to have breakfast later with his future husband. Besides, he had to dress and make himself presentable; he had no time for anything else.
He finished his coffee, washed his cup, and made his bed, then took the crutches from the closet on which the two suits he was considering were carefully folded. He needed to decide, once and for all, which one to wear. There was the blue suit with thin red trim, very elegant, but looking out the window, he noticed it was a beautiful spring day, and maybe that one was too serious. He wanted to look young and cute on his wedding day, not somber! He then shifted his gaze to the other suit, sunshine yellow, with a tie and vest of the same color; it was a gem, but he had doubts about that too. Maybe it was too over the top?
Puffing, he took small steps toward the kitchen and set about making more coffee. Silence reigned in the house, apart from the slight crackling of the coffee pot. He poured a generous amount into another clean cup and lost himself staring at the wall in front of him. If I don’t eat something, I’ll get a migraine, he told himself, but he chased the thought away and went to get his pills, swallowing a couple to prevent the headache that was threatening to come.
His eyes darted between the blue suit and the yellow suit, which he had already worn. He was so indecisive. He took the cup and went to sit by the window, giving himself time to think while inspecting the room. The idea was to return there that evening, and everything had to be in place. With disgust, he noticed that he had made the bed but had not changed the sheets. There was fresh laundry, and from the high shelf of the closet, he took a clean set and unmade the bed, hurriedly avoiding thinking too much about why he was changing the sheets.
It was a double bed, lined to look like a couch, and once made, one could not tell that he had put clean sheets on it. He took the used ones to the bathroom and shoved them into the dirty laundry basket, then did the same with the towels, replacing them with clean ones. When he finished and went back for his cup of coffee, it had gone cold, but he drank it anyway.
He cast a glance at the clock and, to his horror, saw that it was after nine, so he began to hurry. He took a bath and used one of the clean towels, which he then put in the basket and replaced with a fresh one. He dressed in new underwear, bought especially for the occasion, and put the pajamas he had only worn the day before into the basket.
When he was ready to dress, he hesitated in front of the closet. The yellow suit was definitely more appropriate for the festive day, decent and clean, but Kurt had already seen him in it, and it was nothing special. The blue suit was very fine and new to Kurt, but really, it felt too serious.
Finally, he thought, this is my wedding day! I can dress however I want. He took the yellow suit from the crutch and put it on, but immediately thought how, suddenly, it looked bad on him. The fabric was light and perfectly suited for comfort and dancing all night. Besides, he looked so frivolous in it. It’s like I’m trying to look prettier than I am on purpose for Kurt, he told himself. He will think I want to look younger just because he's marrying me. In frustration, he tore off his jacket so vehemently that a seam under his armpit gave way.
In the blue suit, he felt equally comfortable, not much, and it certainly did not excite him.
It's not what you wear that matters, he kept telling himself. But when he turned to his closet and found nothing remotely suitable for his special day with Kurt, despondency gripped him. For a moment, he thought about going out to buy a new suit from a random store.
Then he saw that it was almost ten, and he had just enough time to fix his messy curls. He tried some mousse and powder to keep them in place, not wanting to use hairspray and dry them out, but it didn’t help. He resorted to his usual gel and, using only a small amount, styled his hair.
He considered putting on some foundation; in the mirror, his skin looked dull and gray. But he knew he couldn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes, and Kurt would notice his attempts to look better just because it was his wedding. Yet he couldn't bear the idea of his fiancé marrying someone with a tired, wrinkled face.
You are thirty-two, after all, he said cruelly to his reflection in the mirror.
Twenty-nine, said his license.
It was ten. He was unhappy with his suit, his face, and the state of the apartment. He heated some coffee and went back to sit by the window. By now, there was nothing more he could do; it was absurd to want to change anything at the last minute.
Resigned, he tried to cheer himself up by thinking of Kurt, but he could not see his face clearly or hear his voice. It’s always like that with someone you love, he thought, and let his mind wander to the future, when Kurt would establish himself as an actor and he would leave his job, envisioning a golden future with a house in the center of the city.
“I promise I'll start cooking again,” he had promised Kurt. “With a little time and practice, I could remember how to make cheesecake. And roast tenderloin,” he said, knowing how those words would stick in Kurt's mind. “And homemade mayonnaise with yogurt, too!”
It was ten thirty. He got up and checked his phone. Twenty-nine minutes past ten. He set his wristwatch back a minute. He heard his own voice from the night before echoing on the doorstep: “So, is it true? Are we really getting married tomorrow?” and Kurt laughing as he left.
By eleven, he had mended the seam on his yellow jacket. Wearing the yellow suit, he sat by the window, drinking another cup of coffee. He could have taken more time to get ready, but by then it was so late that Kurt could arrive at any moment, and he didn’t dare change anything for fear of starting all over again.
He was so hungry. There was nothing to eat in the house except for the supplies set aside for the beginning of their married life: a sealed package of bacon and bread, a dozen eggs, untouched milk, and butter. They were meant to be consumed together with Kurt.
He thought about writing a note and going down to the coffee shop below to get something, but decided to wait a little longer.
By eleven thirty, his head was spinning and cramping. He had to eat. If only Kurt carried his phone, he could have warned him… Instead, he took his post-it pad and wrote: Kurt, I went to the coffee shop. I’ll be back in five minutes. The pen stained his fingers, so he ran to the bathroom to wash his hands, using a clean towel that he soon replaced with another fresh one. He attached the note to the door but did not lock it, in case Kurt arrived.
At the counter, however, there was nothing he felt like eating, so he got another cup of coffee. But looking at the clock, he decided to leave it halfway through and hurry back home, certain that Kurt had probably arrived and was waiting for him.
But upstairs, everything was untouched, and there was no sign of Kurt. He went to sit by the window and, to his horror, later realized that he had fallen asleep and that it was almost one p.m. Suddenly waking up in the room prepared for his wedding, with everything clean and untouched since ten o'clock, he was seized with astonishment mixed with nervousness and felt the urge to hurry.
He got up and rushed to the bathroom to refresh his sleep-soaked eyes and mouth. He dried himself but did not replace the towel, telling himself he would have time to do so after the wedding.
With no accessories, a jacket mended as best he could, and the pills in his pocket, he locked the front door and ran down the stairs. He grabbed a cab and gave the driver Kurt’s address. The distance was short; he could have walked, but he really felt too weak.
He had the driver drop him off a few meters from Kurt's building and waited for the cab to pull away before starting down the block. He had never been there before. The building, though old, was pleasant, and apparently Kurt’s name did not appear on any doorbell or mailbox. He checked the address, and it was correct. Deciding to ring the one marked "doorkeeper", he hoped to ask for information. After a couple of minutes, the door opened, and he walked into the dark lobby. He hesitated for a moment until someone at the back opened the door and said, “Yes?”
He realized he had no idea what to ask, so he walked toward the figure against the light. At the man's second, more impatient, “Yes?” he boldly replied, “I'm looking for a person who lives here, but I couldn't find his name outside.”
“What name were you looking for?”
“Kurt Hummel,” he said hesitantly. “Hummel… yes.”
The man, the one against the light, was silent for a moment and then muttered, “Hummel.” He turned toward the room inside the lighted threshold. “Mercedes, come here a minute.”
“What is it?” said a voice from inside. After another couple of minutes of waiting, a woman joined him on the threshold, peering into the darkened lobby.
“This gentleman is looking for a guy named Hummel who lives here,” said the man. “Is he someone from the building?”
“No,” replied the woman, annoyed. “There is no Hummel here!”
“I'm sorry, sir,” the man said, turning to him. “Wrong house.” Immediately, the woman added, laughing: “or wrong man.”
The door was almost closing when he promptly exclaimed: “But he lives here! I'm sure of it!”
“Look,” the woman began, bored. “You may have gotten the wrong address. These things happen.”
“Please, do not misunderstand,” he said with all the composure of a thirty-two years old. “But I'm afraid you have underestimated the situation.”
The woman huffed. “What does this Mr. Hummel look like?”
“He's quite tall,” he said, positioning his hand a few inches above his head. “He has brown hair. He usually wears a light blue suit. And he's an actor!”
“Hmm, no,” the woman replied. “Maybe he lived on the second floor.”
“I... I don"t know exactly…”
“There was a guy,” she continued thoughtfully. “I often saw him in a light blue suit. He lived for a while on the second floor, in the Westons' apartment. They left for a few weeks and lent him the place.”
“That could be, but... I thought…”
“He was usually dressed in blue, but I don't know how tall he was,” the woman said. “He stayed for about a month.”
“It was a month ago that–”
“Ask the Westons. They came back this morning,” the woman informed him. “Apartment 4.”
The door closed with a bang, leaving him in the darkness of the lobby in front of the stairs, which seemed even darker. He climbed slowly, step by step, until he reached the door to apartment 4 on the second floor, from which a faint, scanty light shone beneath it. He looked around; the walls were peeling, but nothing seemed strange. Just very quiet. When he tried to turn on the hallway light, it glowed a dull, eerie green. He had to remember to tell the doorkeeper to change that bulb.
He knocked. Soon after, the door opened, revealing a woman in a robe, her hair ruffled and makeup clearly smudged from the night before.
“Good morning,” he said. “Are you Mrs. Weston?”
She nodded, closing her robe tighter. “It's me.”
He cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“Sure,” the woman replied, without moving.
“It's about Mr. Hummel.”
“Which Mr. Hummel?” asked Mrs. Weston placidly.
“Kurt Hummel, the person to whom you lent the apartment.”
“Oh, Lord,” exclaimed the woman, suddenly awake and alert. “What has he done?”
“Nothing! I'd just like to get in touch with him!”
“Oh, Lord,” she repeated, opening the door wider to let him in. “Come in,” she said, and then called, “Brody!”
Inside the apartment were still half-unpacked suitcases, clothing on the sofa and chairs, and the dining table was strewn with remnants of a meal. A man, who for a moment seemed to him to be Kurt, stood up and approached the woman. “What's going on?”
“Mr. Weston,” he began. “The doorkeeper told me that Mr. Kurt Hummel has been living here.”
“Of course,” Mr. Weston replied. “That is, if that was his name.”
“I thought you lent him the apartment,” he said, surprised.
“I don't know anything about him. Surely he's one of Rachel's friends.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Weston replied, lighting a cigarette. “He is not a friend of mine.”
A silence filled the room, punctuated only by the puffs of smoke. Mrs. Weston waved the cigarette toward her husband. “He is not a friend of mine.”
“You fished him out of one of those damn meetings,” spat Mr. Weston. He sat back in his chair, returning his attention to his wife. “I didn't exchange more than ten words with him.”
“You said it was okay to lend him the house,” Mrs. Weston exclaimed before taking another drag from her cigarette. “You didn't have anything against him, in fact!”
“About your friends, I say nothing.”
“Believe me,” she turned to him, “he would have said a lot. A lot.”
“Enough! Stop talking!”
“That's it!” Mrs. Weston blurted out in despair, vehemently moving her cigarette between him and her husband, causing a generous amount of ash to fall to the ground. “That's how it is, day and night!”
There was a moment of awkward silence, during which the only sound was the woman's heavy breathing. He tried to speak, but his voice came out so faint that it was almost drowned out by the noise of the lighter she used to light a second cigarette. “Come again?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “I asked if... if he had left.”
“Who?” she asked, puffing out smoke.
“Mr. Kurt Hummel.”
“Oh, him? He must have left this morning before we got back. There’s no sign of him anywhere.”
“Left?”
“Everything was in order, though,” the woman continued, as if having a conversation with herself. “Everything was perfect! I told you,” she looked at her husband with spirited eyes. “I told you he would take care of everything. I always guess these kinds of things.”
“You were lucky.”
“Nothing out of place,” the woman continued, as if in a trance, looking around. “Everything as we left it.”
“And... do you know where he is now?”
“I have no idea!” she replied cheerfully. “But why?” she asked suddenly, serious and alarmed. “Are you looking for him?”
He nodded. “It's something very important.”
“I'm sorry, but you won't find him here,” she hissed, looking at him with her big, dull brown eyes. She approached him slowly, stepping past him to open the door and invite him out. Her gaze remained fixed on the dark staircase, and she began to tremble. “But maybe the doorkeeper saw him,” she whispered.
Without even realizing it, he found himself in the hallway, the door closing behind him. As he descended the stairs, a deafening noise struck him, like broken glass, preceded by a loud “I hate you!”
He stopped halfway down, staring at Mrs. Weston as she opened the door again. The woman wore a manic, sinister smile, her eyes fixed on him. She was breathing heavily. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you've been looking for him,” she said before closing the door, not even attempting to hide the half-broken, bloody crystal ashtray.
What do I do now? he thought once he was back on the street. It was impossible to get home, with Kurt surely looking for him in turn. He stood still on the sidewalk, thinking and trying to make up his mind. Looking up, his eyes were caught by those of a woman staring at him through a window, a tugged smile on her face. The woman didn't blink. Her eyes seemed as deep as abysses, and her expression was impossible to read. She did not move, but her presence was palpable. He felt his heart beat faster, and a shiver ran down his spine, followed by a trickle of cold sweat. He could not look away. The woman's smile grew wider, but it was no ordinary smile. It was terrifying.
Suddenly, a honk distracted him, causing him to look away. When he glanced back at the window, the woman had disappeared, but the sense of horror followed him all the way into the drugstore across the street, where he decided to enter.
He swallowed two pills to take his mind off it.
Behind the fresh meat counter, a man was reading the newspaper. When he saw him, he put it down, breathing heavily as he waited for him to place an order. He smiled shyly and asked, “I’m looking for a man who lived in the building next door. I wondered if you might know him.”
The man narrowed his eyes, inspecting him. “Why don’t you ask the people in the building?”
It’s because I don’t buy anything…
He hesitated, then added, “Forgive me, but they don’t know anything about it. They say he left this morning.”
“And what do you want me to do?” the merchant asked, picking up the newspaper again. “It’s not like I’m watching who comes and who–”
“I just thought you might have noticed,” he interjected, not letting the man finish. He cleared his throat. “He should have passed by a little before ten o'clock. A rather tall guy. In a light blue suit. Maybe.”
“Do you know how many people pass by every day dressed in blue, sir?” the man asked. “Do you think I have nothing else to do but–”
“I’m sorry!” he said, hurrying out as the man huffed and cursed under his breath.
He must have come this way, he thought as he walked to the corner. That’s how he would come to my house; there are no other routes! He tried to think of Kurt. Where would he cross? What kind of person was he? Would he cross in front of the building, in the middle of the block, or on the corner?
At that corner was a newsstand; maybe they had seen him there. He hurried to the entrance, waiting for the two customers in front of him to finish their shopping. When the newsagent finally turned to him, he asked, “Could you tell me if a rather tall man dressed in light blue came here this morning around ten o'clock?”
The man merely stared at him, eyes and mouth half-open. He thought, He must think I’m making fun of him, so he hastened to add, “This is very important, believe me! I’m not playing a joke on you!”
“Look, kid–” the man exclaimed, but he promptly continued. “He’s an actor! Perhaps he is used to buying show business magazines from you?”
“Why are you looking for him?” the man asked, smiling. He realized that he had another customer behind him, so the newsagent’s smile was for that person.
“Don’t worry,” he said bitterly, turning to leave, but the newsagent quickly added, “Look, okay, maybe I saw him.” He exchanged an amused glance with the other customer behind him. Surely they must be making fun of my garish yellow suit, he thought, instinctively wrapping his arms around his body.
The newsagent barely coughed. “Yes, but I'm not sure. It may be that someone who looked like your friend came by this morning.”
“Around ten o'clock?”
“Around ten o'clock,” he confirmed. “Tall, light blue suit. Very likely.”
“And which way did he go?” he asked anxiously. “Up?”
“Up,” he nodded again. “Just like that. Okay, what can I do for you, sir?” he asked the other man, ignoring him.
He flinched, letting the man pass and heading for the exit. He did not trust much of what the newsagent had said, and after hearing the two laugh, certainly at him, he pretended he had never entered the newsstand. However...
Up. He walked back up the avenue, thinking. Kurt didn’t need to cross the avenue; he just needed to go six blocks and turn into the street where I live, since he went up. One block further, he passed a florist. In the window were photos and pictures of weddings, and he thought, Today is my wedding day, after all. Maybe he got me flowers. So he went inside. The florist came out of the back store, all smiles and mellifluous, and he, lest she think he was there to buy, almost breathless, said at once, “It's terribly important to put me in touch with a man who may have stopped here this morning to buy flowers. Terribly important.”
The florist asked, “Flowers of what kind?”
“I don’t know…” he said, surprised. “He doesn’t…” He didn’t know what to say, so he deflected. “A tall guy in a light blue suit. Around ten o'clock.”
“I see…” said the florist. “Hmm, actually, I'm afraid—”
“It's very important,” he said. “Maybe he was in a hurry…”
“So,” said the florist, smiling amiably with all her little teeth showing. She went to the counter and pulled a large register out of a drawer. “Flowers to send where?”
“Um…” he said, confused. “I don't think to send away. You know, he was coming– I mean, he was taking them with him.”
“Sir,” said the florist with an offended tone and a regretful smile, “you must realize that I have no elements to–”
“Please,” he interrupted, pleading. “Try to remember. He was tall. In a light blue suit. Around ten o'clock this morning.”
The florist closed her eyes and seemed to really think hard. But then she shook her head. “No, I really don't remember,” she finally said.
Despondent, he thanked the woman and walked toward the exit, when at one point, in an excited voice, the florist said, “Wait! Wait, sir!”
He promptly turned to her, trepidatiously. “Chrysanthemums?”
He looked at her, blinking several times, then in a barely trembling voice, answered, “Oh, no. Not for such an occasion, I'm sure…”
The florist became noticeably impatient. “Well, of course I don't know what the occasion was,” she said sarcastically. “But I'm pretty sure the gentleman you asked about came in this morning and bought a dozen chrysanthemums, and took them with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure!” said the woman emphatically. “It was him without a doubt.”
She gave him a bright smile, and he smiled back, adding only at the end, “Well, thank you so much.”
The florist accompanied him to the door. “How about a nice bouquet for you? Red roses? Gardenias?”
He shook his head. “It was very kind of you to help me.”
“Maybe orchids for your girlfriend? To a woman, flowers are always given.”
He shook his head even harder, panicking. “No, you see, I'm…”
The florist peered at him and seemed to understand, so she straightened her back and, with dislike, almost pushed him out, adding only, “Good luck with your man, then.”
On the street corner stood a policeman. He thought, why not? Why don't I go to the police? You go to the police about a missing person, but then he also thought, what kind of fool would I look like? An image flashed in his mind of himself in a police station, saying, “Yeah, you know... we were supposed to get married today, but he didn't come,” and the officers looking at him, laughing and ridiculing him for his gaudy yellow suit. He imagined replying, “Yes, it sounds ridiculous. Me all dolled up looking for the guy who promised to marry me, but what do you know? I’m not just what you see. I have talent, perhaps, and in my own way, humor! Pride and affection, as well as grace and a clear vision of life!”
The police were obviously to be ruled out, never mind what Kurt might have thought if he had the police on his tail. No, no.
On the next corner, three blocks from his house, there was a homeless man dozing in a half-unhinged chair. He stopped in front of him and waited, and after a moment, the old man opened his eyes and smiled.
“Look,” he said, perhaps a little abruptly and without thinking. “I’m looking for a man who came through here this morning around ten o’clock. Have you seen him?” Then came the usual spiel. “Tall, light blue suit, with a bouquet of–”
The old man nodded before he even finished. “I saw him. Friend of yours?”
“Yes,” he murmured.
The old man cleared his throat and spoke. “I remember thinking, are you going to visit your love? They all visit their love looking like that,” he said, shaking his head indulgently.
“And which way did he go? Did you see him? Straight this way?”
“That's right,” confirmed the old homeless man. “Shiny shoes, nice clothes, with flowers... he was in a hurry. Going to his love, I thought.”
“Thank you,” he said, reaching into his pockets for some change for the man.
For the first time, he was really sure that Kurt was waiting for him, so he hurried down the three blocks. From the corner, no windows could be seen, and he could not see Kurt looking out, waiting for him. He almost ran down the building to meet him. The key trembled in his fingers, and when he saw the coffee shop, he thought of the panic of that morning, the coffee he had drunk, and almost laughed. At the apartment door, he could not contain himself and started to say, “Kurt! I'm here! Oh, I was so worried,” before even opening it.
However, a silent, deserted apartment awaited him, with afternoon shadows stretching from the window. For a moment, at the sight of the empty coffee cup, he thought Kurt had drunk it while he was waiting, but then he realized it was the cup he had left there in the morning. He looked all over the room, in the walk-in closet, in the bathroom.
“I didn't see him,” said the barista at the coffee shop. “I would have noticed someone coming into the building with flowers. And no one did.”
The homeless man woke up again and saw him standing in front of him. “Hello.”
“Are you sure?” he blurted out. “Are you sure he was going up this way?”
“I watched him,” said the man, almost offended. “I thought, here's a young man going to his love. And I stayed and watched him until he went into the house.”
“What house?” he asked tiredly.
“There... there,” he said, pointing. “On that block. He had flowers, shiny shoes, and he was going to his love. I watched him until he went into the house.”
“Which one?”
“About halfway down the block,” he replied, looking at him suspiciously. “What do you want to do, anyway?”
He ran off, almost without saying thank you. He reached the next block quickly, scanning the houses to see if Kurt was leaning out a window, ears strained to hear his laughter inside. If only he could remember his laugh...
He saw a woman sitting in front of a house, intent on monotonously pushing a baby carriage with a sleeping child inside. The question came by itself. “Hello, did you happen to see a man enter one of these houses this morning around ten o'clock? Tall, light blue suit, bouquet of flowers?:
A kid of about twelve years old stopped to listen, leaning his eyes from side to side as if in a ping pong game. “Listen,” the woman began, bored. “The baby takes a bath at that time. Do you think I would have time to look at who is walking around here? You tell me.”
“With a bouquet of flowers, you say?” the kid asked, intruding between them. “I saw him!”
“And which house did he enter?” he asked, although he no longer had much energy.
The kid laughed. “Do you want to divorce him?”
“Insolent…” murmured the lady.
“Look,” the kid continued. “I saw him. He went in there,” he said, pointing to the house next door. “I followed him. He gave me five bucks.” Then he lowered his voice and muttered, “And he said, ‘Today is a big day for me,’ and he gave me the five dollars.”
He handed the boy a dollar bill. “Where?”
“On the top floor,” he said, letting the dollar slip from his hands. “I followed him until he gave me the money. All the way to the top floor.” He retreated to the sidewalk, out of reach, the dollar in his hand. “Do you want a divorce?” he asked again.
“Did he have flowers?”
“Yes!” then he shouted. “What do you want, a divorce? Does he want a divorce? Are you angry with him?”
The little boy ran zigzagging up the street, shouting, “Poor guy! Poor guy!” making even the lady with the stroller laugh.
The door to the building was not locked. There were no bells in the entrance, no list of names. The stairs were narrow and filthy.
On the last landing, there were two doors. The front door was definitely the right one. In front of it, on the ground, lay a crumpled piece of florist paper and a knotted ribbon, like a trail. The final clue in the treasure hunt.
He knocked. He thought he heard voices inside, and suddenly he dreaded what he would say if Kurt answered the door. The voices fell abruptly silent. He knocked again. Silence. Except perhaps for a laugh, almost evil, but distant. He waited, then knocked again, but the only response was silence.
Finally, exhausted, he went to the other door and knocked. The door opened wide under the push of his hand, revealing an empty attic. An attic shrouded in oppressive darkness. Beams of light filtered through the rotten ceiling boards, casting sinister shadows on the peeling walls. Dust and cobwebs accumulated in every corner, creating a patina of neglect and abandonment. The gnarled, cracked wooden beams creaked under his feet at the slightest movement, while stagnant air filled the room with a musty, decrepit smell.
An ancient trunk, closed but unsealed, lay in the corner, emanating an unsettling energy. A light bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting dancing shadows that seemed to come to life, warping shapes and creating menacing figures.
The tension-laden silence was deafening. But he could hear whispers of something invisible, as if crawling through the shadows. A chill ran down his spine. Something was waiting for him in the darkness. Or maybe it was just the stark reality that was scaring him to death.
Panic began to take hold of him, and he hurriedly swallowed two pills to take his mind off it.
Every moment he spent there seemed to close in on him, as if the room wanted to swallow him in its icy, timeless embrace. Into oblivion.
With his legs tired and his heart heavy, he walked out, finding himself once again in the creepy silence of the dark staircase. He was sure he heard voices and sometimes laughter. He knew there was someone in the other apartment.
He returned many times. Every day for the first week. He went there in the morning before work and in the evening when he returned to have dinner alone. But no matter how much he knocked, no matter how hard he tried to call Kurt's name in vain, no matter how sure he was that there was someone on the other side, no one ever came to the door.