When I woke up, I was in bed.
Sunlight spilled through the window.
Birds chirped outside.
The clock said 7:42 AM.
A perfectly normal morning.
Except I didn't remember falling asleep.
And I didn't remember… anything else.
There was a strange pressure in my chest, like I'd forgotten something important.
Like a name, or a birthday, or a promise I'd made long ago.
I sat up, looked around.
The apartment was clean.
Too clean.
No cracked mirrors.
No whisper door.
No signs of Mara. Or Eli. Or Fray.
It was as if none of it had ever happened.
I walked into the kitchen.
A crisp white envelope lay on the counter.
My name was printed on the front.
Except it wasn't my name.
It said:
"To Our New Tenant – Welcome to Unit 4B"
Inside: a fresh lease agreement.
Dated May 1st.
Today's date.
My hand trembled as I read it.
Everything seemed normal—except for one clause at the very bottom:
"This lease will renew automatically unless terminated by ritual or fire."
And in tiny red ink beneath that:
"Tenants who fail to remember will be considered in compliance."
I dropped the paper.
It fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.
I rushed to the front door.
Opened it.
The hallway was empty.
Silent.
But now, something was off.
There were no other doors.
No 4C, no 4A, no 4D.
Just mine.
As if the entire floor had been reset just for me.
I stepped back inside and caught my reflection in the mirror near the entrance.
My face looked normal.
But something in my eyes was… slower.
Like they were still syncing with a life I hadn't lived yet.
I whispered, "What did I forget?"
The mirror didn't answer.
But my own voice echoed faintly from somewhere behind me:
"You chose to forget."
Later that day, there was a knock at the door.
A delivery person stood there, holding a package.
"Welcome gift from management," she said.
Handed me a brown box with no label.
I asked her who sent it.
She just smiled.
"I'm not supposed to say.But he wears a nice coat."
My blood went cold.
She turned and walked away without another word.
I opened the box.
Inside:
A ledger, blank.
A black pen.
A photo of me, standing at the Whisper Door.
And a key, old and brass, shaped like an eye.
I dropped everything and backed away.
But the moment I turned around…
The ledger was already on the kitchen table.
Open.
Waiting.
I flipped through its pages.
All blank.
Until I reached the center.
One entry.
Scrawled in handwriting I didn't recognize—but somehow knew was mine.
Name: [UNKNOWN]Unit: 4BStatus: InheritedTerms: One cycle. Until memory fades. Or contract burns.
Beneath it: a question.
In blood-red ink.
"Do you remember why you signed?"
I snapped the book shut.
Threw it in the closet.
Locked the door.
Taped it shut.
And sat in the living room, shaking.
But I could still hear it whispering.
Just one word.
Over and over:
"Renew…"
That night, I tried to sleep.
The bed felt unfamiliar again.
Like something had shifted.
At 2:11 AM, I woke up.
No noise.
No door.
Just silence.
But I felt someone standing by the foot of the bed.
I turned slowly.
No one there.
Except—
My reflection in the window.
It blinked when I didn't.
It mouthed something I couldn't hear.
But I read its lips:
"The contract isn't broken.It's wearing your name now."
I screamed.
But no sound came out.
In the morning, the apartment felt normal again.
The ledger was gone.
So was the box.
So was the mirror.
But now, a new envelope waited on the floor.
Typed. No handwriting.
Just the same message:
"Lease successfully renewed."
And below it, stamped:
"Witness confirmed."
I spent the next few days trying to remember more.
But the memories began to blur.
Eli's face faded.
Mara's voice disappeared.
Even Fray's name became slippery.
Like trying to hold smoke.
Only the feeling remained.
That tight, anxious coil in my chest.
Like I'd made a mistake I could never undo.
On the seventh day, I found something under the floorboards.
A photo album.
But the pictures were all out of focus.
Each photo had one person blurred—me.
In one, I stood beside a mirror.
In another, at a desk with a burning page.
One showed me with Mara, hand on her shoulder, as if comforting her.
On the back of each photo:
"If you're reading this,you've already signed again."
I tried to leave the apartment.
Door wouldn't open.
Not jammed.
Just… resistant.
Like the building was holding me in.
Like it was breathing.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I sat at the desk.
Opened a notebook.
And began to write everything I could remember.
Every name. Every rule. Every symbol.
I wrote until my hands cramped.
Until the ink ran out.
Until my own name no longer made sense.
And at the end of the last page, I wrote one warning:
"If you find this,don't renew.Burn the contract.Before it wears your face."
I sealed the notebook behind the wall.
Taped over the crack.
And sat quietly, listening for the Whisper Door.
But it didn't return.
Not yet.
It's waiting.
Just like I am.
Because deep down, I know the truth now.
There's no end to the contract.
Only inheritance.