A soft stroke of crimson appeared on the blank space beside her skyline.
Isabelle’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as she jumped to her feet.
“What the hell?!”
The brush continued moving.
Gentle.
Precise.
Like an invisible hand guiding it.
Stroke by stroke, a rose began to appear on the canvas.
Petal.
After petal.
Dark red.
Beautiful.
Alive.
The brush dropped.
Silence returned.
Isabelle stared at the painting.
The rose looked perfect.
Better than anything she’d painted in weeks.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Slowly—
Very slowly—
She turned around.
The room looked exactly the same.
Empty.
Quiet.
Dust floating lazily through the air.
But something had changed.
She could feel it.
Like someone else was in the room.
Watching.
“Hello?” she called cautiously.
No answer.
She grabbed her phone.
Maybe she should call Dylan.
But just as she unlocked the screen—
The lamp flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the room dimmed.
The piano key pressed down.
A single note echoed softly.
Isabelle’s blood ran cold.
Another key followed.
Then another.
Music.
Someone—
Something—
Was playing the piano.
Isabelle turned slowly.
The piano bench was empty.
But the keys moved.
One after another.
The melody was soft.
Elegant.
Almost heartbreakingly beautiful.
Her legs refused to move.
The music filled the apartment like a ghost breathing life into forgotten memories.
Then suddenly—
The music stopped.
The air grew colder.
A faint chill brushed against Isabelle’s neck.
She turned toward the window.
And that’s when she saw him.
A man stood beside the curtains.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that looked like it belonged in another century.
His dark hair was neatly combed back.
His posture straight.
Elegant.
Refined.
But his body—
Was half transparent.
Moonlight shone through his chest.
Isabelle’s mind went blank.
The man slowly turned his head.
Their eyes met.
His gaze was calm.
Deep.
Ancient.
And filled with a loneliness so heavy it felt like gravity.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he spoke.
His voice was smooth.
Gentle.
“Please don’t be afraid.”
Isabelle screamed.
She dove under her blanket like a terrified child.
“Oh my God oh my God oh my God—”
Her heart hammered violently in her chest.
Ghost.
There was a ghost in her apartment.
After several seconds—
Silence.
No footsteps.
No piano.
Nothing.
Isabelle slowly lowered the blanket.
The room was empty.
The man was gone.
Only the canvas remained.
The rose still glowed vividly against the skyline.
Proof she wasn’t losing her mind.
—
The next morning, Isabelle looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.
She sat in a small Brooklyn café across from Dylan Heywood.
Her boyfriend looked annoyingly perfect as usual—expensive coat, neat hair, confident smile.
“So,” Dylan said, stirring his coffee. “You’re telling me there’s a ghost living in your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“And it plays piano.”
“Yes.”
“And it paints roses.”
Isabelle glared.
“I’m serious.”
Dylan chuckled and reached across the table, squeezing her hand.
“Belle, you’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“I’m not hallucinating.”
“Of course not.”
But the way he said it made it clear he thought she was.
“Maybe the building’s wiring is old,” Dylan continued smoothly. “Lights flicker. Pipes creak. Your imagination fills in the rest.”
Isabelle frowned.
“But I saw him.”
“What did he look like?”
She hesitated.
“Like… a gentleman.”
Dylan leaned back.
His smile didn’t change.
But something dark flickered in his eyes.
“Interesting.”
Isabelle sighed.
“Forget it.”
Maybe it had been exhaustion.
Maybe she had imagined everything.
Maybe—
“You can see him, can’t you?”
The voice came from behind her.
Isabelle turned.
Clara Bennett stood beside the café table.
The old woman studied her with knowing eyes.
“You saw him last night.”
It wasn’t a question.
Isabelle swallowed.
“How did you know?”
Clara sighed softly.
“I’ve seen that look before.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Clara said quietly—
“That gentleman has lived in Apartment 307 for a hundred years.”
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
Clara continued.
“Most people never see him.”
Her eyes locked onto Isabelle’s.
“But the lonely ones do.”
A cold shiver ran down Isabelle’s spine.
“You’re not imagining things, child.”
Clara folded her hands.
“He’s real.”
Dylan’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup.
His smile remained polite.
But his eyes—
Gleamed with something sharp.
Something hungry.
Clara leaned closer to Isabelle and whispered—
“And once he appears…”
Her voice dropped to a hush.
“He never leaves.”