The second night in Apartment 307 began with silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that pressed against Isabelle Carter’s ears like something waiting.
She stood in the middle of the living room, arms folded tightly across her chest, staring at the piano in the corner as if it might suddenly grow legs and walk toward her.
Nothing moved.
The late evening light stretched across the wooden floor, painting the room in shades of amber and shadow. Outside, Brooklyn hummed with distant traffic and the occasional siren.
Normal sounds.
Normal city life.
Which made last night feel even more impossible.
Isabelle paced the apartment.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Either I imagined everything…”
She stopped.
“…or I’m living with a ghost.”
The word ghost sounded ridiculous even in her own head.
Yet the rose painted beside her skyline was still there.
She walked to the easel again.
The brushstrokes were elegant. Controlled. Confident.
Definitely not hers.
She leaned closer.
Whoever—or whatever—had painted it understood art in a way she hadn’t seen in years.
The rose looked alive.
Every petal carried emotion.
Longing.
Regret.
Love.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Okay,” she said to the empty room. “If you’re real…”
She crossed her arms.
“…show yourself.”
Silence.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
Nothing happened.
Isabelle rolled her eyes.
“Yeah. That’s what I—”
The piano key pressed down.
A single note echoed through the room.
Her entire body went rigid.
Another key followed.
Then another.
A slow melody began to unfold.
The same haunting music from the night before.
Isabelle slowly turned toward the piano.
The bench remained empty.
But the keys moved.
Invisible fingers dancing across them.
Her heart started racing.
“Okay,” she whispered. “So you’re definitely real.”
The music continued.
Soft.
Beautiful.
Sad.
Like a memory that refused to fade.
And then—
The air shifted.
Cold brushed against her skin.
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
Isabelle’s breath caught as a figure slowly formed beside the piano.
First the outline.
Then the details.
A man stepped out of nothingness like mist taking shape.
Tall.
Elegant.
Dressed in the same dark suit she’d seen the night before.
His movements were calm, deliberate, almost aristocratic.
Dark hair fell neatly over his forehead.
His jaw was sharp, his features refined in a way that belonged to another century.
And his eyes—
God.
His eyes.
They were a deep gray, like storm clouds before rain.
Lonely.
Ancient.
Haunted.
The music stopped.
Silence filled the apartment again.
Isabelle’s brain short-circuited.
She stared.
The ghost stared back.
Finally, he spoke.
“You didn’t run away.”
His voice was smooth and low, with the faintest trace of an old-world accent.
British.
Definitely British.
Isabelle blinked.
“Should I have?”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
“That is usually the reaction.”
“Good to know.”
Her voice came out surprisingly steady.
Though her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
“So…”
She gestured vaguely toward him.
“You’re a ghost.”
“Yes.”
“And you live in my apartment.”
“I did not intend to intrude.”
Isabelle snorted.
“You literally haunt the place.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Haunting implies malicious intent.”
“And floating around invisibly in my living room doesn’t?”
“Only if I wished you harm.”
His gaze softened.
“I do not.”
For a moment, Isabelle didn’t know what to say.
This was insane.
She was casually talking to a ghost like they were discussing the weather.
She dragged a hand through her hair.
“Okay. Let’s start simple.”
She pointed at him.
“Name?”
He paused.
As if the question carried weight.
Then he said quietly—
“Adrian Laurent.”
The name rolled off his tongue like poetry.
French.
Or at least French heritage.
Isabelle nodded slowly.
“Isabelle Carter.”
“I know.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“You know?”
“You introduced yourself to the manager yesterday.”
Right.
Ghost.