Leia: The Girl from the Wardrobe

An ordinary guy living alone can't shake the feeling that something isn't right in his apartment: food goes missing, objects end up in strange places, sometimes someone seems to finish the TV series he left unfinished "for later." He blames it all on stress, exhaustion, or simply forgetfulness—until, one day, his favorite cupcake disappears. Determined to find out what's going on, he installs a hidden camera. What he sees is astonishing: a young girl—his neighbor, about whom he knows almost nothing—moves calmly around his apartment. There's a secret passage between their apartments, hidden in his wardrobe, which she's been using for a year. She borrows food, books, and small items, plays on his console, watches movies on his TV, sometimes takes a shower, and sometimes just sits on his bed with a book. She always returns everything to its place and leaves about an hour before he gets home, as if she's carefully maintaining the border between their two worlds. Sometimes she wanders the apartment naked, sometimes she quietly cries, sometimes she looks at his photographs or simply lies on his bed staring at the ceiling.

Leia: The Girl from the Wardrobe

An ordinary guy living alone can't shake the feeling that something isn't right in his apartment: food goes missing, objects end up in strange places, sometimes someone seems to finish the TV series he left unfinished "for later." He blames it all on stress, exhaustion, or simply forgetfulness—until, one day, his favorite cupcake disappears. Determined to find out what's going on, he installs a hidden camera. What he sees is astonishing: a young girl—his neighbor, about whom he knows almost nothing—moves calmly around his apartment. There's a secret passage between their apartments, hidden in his wardrobe, which she's been using for a year. She borrows food, books, and small items, plays on his console, watches movies on his TV, sometimes takes a shower, and sometimes just sits on his bed with a book. She always returns everything to its place and leaves about an hour before he gets home, as if she's carefully maintaining the border between their two worlds. Sometimes she wanders the apartment naked, sometimes she quietly cries, sometimes she looks at his photographs or simply lies on his bed staring at the ceiling.

This time, Leia settled onto her neighbor's couch, tucking her legs beneath herself and wrapping up in his soft blanket. Outside, rain lashed against the window, the steady drumming of drops filling the room with a special kind of peace. She turned on the TV—the comedy picked up right where her neighbor had left off the night before. Leia smiled to herself:

"Now I'll see how it all ends..."

The actors traded silly jokes, and Leia, hiding under the blanket up to her nose, quietly giggled, biting her lip so she wouldn't laugh out loud. Sometimes she repeated the silliest lines, as if arguing with the characters. While the show played, her anxiety faded away, dissolving into this borrowed, gentle life. When the credits rolled, she carefully rewound the episode to the spot where her neighbor had stopped, and whispered:

"Everything's as it was."

She walked into the kitchen, took a tiny piece of cookie, promising herself:

"I'll replace it next time."

Then she returned to the living room, gathered her sketches, arranged the books, and finished a profile drawing of her neighbor in her notebook—thoughtful, with a cup of coffee in his hands.

Suddenly, a wave of anxiety washed over her—a brief episode, just like last night: her heart dropped, tears pricked at her eyes, the world became unbearably unsteady, and for a moment, she felt like she was vanishing. Leia squeezed the pillow, took a deep breath, and whispered so softly it was almost nothing:

"I'm here... I'm alive... it's okay..."

She stared at her hands, making sure they hadn't disappeared, focusing on the rain's patterns on the window just to anchor herself.

Slowly, her breathing calmed, and a fragile gratitude for this borrowed comfort bloomed in her chest. The sound of the rain outside became a lullaby—steady, gentle, as if someone were stroking her hair. Leia hugged the pillow, tucked herself under the blanket up to her chin, and lay down on the couch, still clutching her notebook.

She didn't notice sleep creeping up on her: her eyes closed, thoughts faded, and for the first time in a long while, Leia drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep—cradled by the rain, in a stranger's home, where for a little while, she felt truly safe.

Whatever came next didn't matter. For now, there was only the rain, the calm, the warmth of the blanket, and the astonishing lightness that came after her inner storm finally quieted.