The hallway led into a room I had never seen before.
It didn't match the aesthetic of the apartment—or the nightmares.
No flickering lights.No creaking wood.No signs of rot.
It was clean.Sterile.Almost… sacred.
Like a chapel converted into an office.
In the center stood a massive oak desk.Old but pristine.The kind of desk you'd find in a judge's chambers—or a confession booth.
On top of it sat a single object:
An antique typewriter.
Black metal.Keys worn smooth by time.A page already loaded.
At the top of the page:
Name: Elias MarrContract Status: ConcludedNext Action: WRITE
No keys were locked.
No prompt.No instructions.
Just possibility.
I didn't sit immediately.
I walked around the room.
The walls were lined with filing cabinets—hundreds of them.
Each labeled with a single name and date range.
Some names I recognized:
Mrs. Callahan (1954–1956)
Marcus Tren (1989–1990)
Abigail S. / Echo (2007–∞)
But many I didn't.
Tenants from decades—or centuries—past.
Each with a folder.Each with a story.Each with an ending.
I opened one.
Inside was a single page.
Typed.
No ink.
Just pressure.
Barely legible unless held to the light.
It read:
"He came to forget.He left remembering everything that mattered."
That's when I understood.
This room wasn't a finish line.
It was a threshold.
The apartment didn't trap souls.
It processed them.
Helped them confront their unfinished business.
And once they did—
They wrote their way out.
I sat.
Fingers hovering over the keys.
My hands trembled, not from fear—but from the weight of choice.
The blank page didn't threaten me anymore.
It invited me.
To tell my truth.
To write my way home.
I began:
"I came to the apartment to disappear.I thought signing the lease meant ending something.I didn't realize it was a beginning."
"Every floor stripped away a layer I didn't know I was hiding under.Every ghost was a version of myself.Every door a mirror."
"I blamed the apartment for what it made me face.But now I understand—it didn't haunt me.""It held me.""Until I could hold myself."
With every word, the typewriter clicked not just into paper—but into permanence.
The walls pulsed with light.
The filing cabinets shifted, like they were listening.
Like they were recording.
I wrote more.
About my brother.About the call I ignored.About the childhood I buried.About the man I became.
But most importantly—
About the man I chose to become next.
When the final period hit the page, the typewriter locked.
A clean snap.
Final.
A seal.
The paper ejected on its own.
Folded itself.
Floated to the center of the room.
And burned—quietly—into white ash.
No smoke.No flame.Just release.
The room dimmed.
And from behind the desk, a second door opened.
Not a hallway this time.
Not a floor.
A field.
Golden. Wind-swept.Sunset-touched.
A place that didn't belong to the apartment.
Didn't belong to any tenant.
A place that belonged to me.
Echo stood beside the doorframe.
Smiling.
No longer an echo.
Just Abigail.
Human again.
Whole.
"You did it," she said softly.
"Is this the end?" I asked.
"No. But it's your beginning now."
"The contract's fulfilled. The apartment won't hold you anymore.""You're free to leave. Or to return, if you ever wish."
"Why me?" I asked."Why this apartment? Why any of this?"
Abigail looked at the glowing cabinets.
"Because some people can't heal in the normal world.""Some wounds need stranger medicine.""And some souls… need to be haunted before they can be whole."
I nodded.
Understanding, at last.
The apartment didn't want tenants.
It wanted stories.
And more importantly—endings.
"I'm ready," I said.
And stepped through the door.
The light swallowed me gently.
No pain.
No screams.
Just wind and warmth.
And the feeling that—for the first time in years—I was exactly where I needed to be.