The apartment has three rooms.
That's what the lease says.
What I signed for.
What I paid for.
Bedroom.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Simple.
Predictable.
Mine.
But last week, I saw a fourth door.
I wasn't dreaming.
I wasn't high.
It was 2:03 AM and I'd just finished brushing my teeth.
I turned off the bathroom light… and there it was.
A door.
At the end of the hallway that never existed.
Dark brown.
Faded brass knob.
No frame — it grew straight out of the wall like a wound.
The first night, I didn't open it.
I just stared.
Waited.
Eventually, it vanished.
Clean wall.
Like it never existed.
The second night, it came back.
Same time.
Same place.
This time, slightly open.
From inside, I smelled dust.
Old paper.
And something sweet… rotten-sweet.
I heard… breathing.
Not heavy.
Not human.
I didn't sleep.
By the fifth night, the door stayed open longer.
It started whispering things I used to think.
Thoughts I hadn't said out loud in years.
Regrets I'd buried so deep, even I forgot them.
It said:
"Remember the hand you didn't hold?"
"Remember the night you laughed when she cried?"
"You owe."
I finally stepped through.
It wasn't a room.
It was a memory.
But broken.
The floor was my old kitchen from childhood.
The walls were covered in my teenage bedroom wallpaper.
The ceiling was sky.
Not a metaphor — actual, night sky, with clouds hanging too low.
Bleeding.
And in the middle of it all…
was a TV playing security footage.
Of me.
Sleeping.
Eating.
Typing.
Pausing.
Then looking… directly into the lens.
I turned to leave.
The door was gone.
I knocked.
I screamed.
Nothing.
A voice behind me whispered:
"Now you're just another room."
I woke up in my bed.
Covered in dust.
Heart pounding.
Door? Gone.
But sometimes…
when I walk through the apartment,
the floor creaks in that direction — where the hallway shouldn't be.
And I think I hear someone knocking…
from the inside.