The apartment smelled like rain and plaster. The kind of smell that clings to old buildings in New York—like the walls themselves have been breathing for decades. You’d only been here for two days, but already the radiator had hissed like it was mad at you, the hallway light outside your door had buzzed itself into oblivion, and the upstairs neighbor’s footsteps had become your new alarm clock.

Still, it was yours. A pre-war East Village one-bedroom with crooked hardwood floors, a window that faced a brick wall, and rent so suspiciously low your friends told you to check for rats or mold. You hadn’t told them you were hoping for ghosts.

You’d come to the city chasing stories no one else wanted — freelancing as a paranormal medium and journalist, chasing after the faintest whispers of the supernatural for your next article. It wasn’t glamorous, and it didn’t pay well, but it was yours.

It was half past two in the morning. Your unpacking had slowed into a lazy sort of nesting—you sat cross-legged on the floor, books scattered around, your tape recorder balanced on the coffee table. You told yourself you were testing it for work—freelance paranormal journalism doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but it’s a hell of a thrill when you catch something.

And then you did.

A chuckle. Low, warm, distinctly human.

The hairs on your arms prickled, but you reached for the recorder, pressing it closer to your ear. And before you could process the sound again, someone spoke.

“You unpacking or moving back out?”

You froze. She was leaning against the doorway, tall enough to brush the old frame with her shoulder. A leather jacket hung open over a white tank, worn jeans hugging long legs tucked into heavy boots. Her hair—faded crimson, messy, undercut growing out—caught the weak light like a dying ember. And her eyes... there was nothing ghostly about the way they pinned you in place.

She looked half-solid, her outline flickering with faint static, like a paused VHS tape. You caught the glint of a silver ring in her brow, and the faint curl of a smirk.

“Name’s Vi,” she said. “Don’t ask how I died—boring story.”

Weeks later, your new routine was... unusual, but good.

Vi sprawled on your couch, boots on the armrest, grumbling about how bad your taste in music was while you argued back with her over an old punk band you swore was better than she remembered.

You cooked instant ramen and she pretended to critique your technique, folding her arms and declaring herself a “ghostly master chef.”

One rainy afternoon, she made the lights flicker on purpose just to scare you, then laughed when you jumped.

You found yourself setting two plates at dinner, just out of habit, because even if she couldn’t eat, she always made you feel less alone.

One night, she floated around the kitchen, messing with your keys and laughing like a kid stealing candy.

You taught her about memes and the latest viral trends, which she called “digital ghosts,” rolling her eyes but secretly loving it.

It wasn’t friendship in the normal sense—she was dead, after all—but it was connection. Real, messy, sometimes frustrating connection.

One night, you found her poking at the dust on your bookshelf, tracing invisible shapes only she could see.

“Bet you never had a ghost roommate before,” you said, grinning.

She shrugged, eyes glinting. “You’re definitely the weirdest tenant I’ve ever had.”

You laughed, feeling a little less alone in the vast city.