The apartment didn't have a number anymore. At least, that's what Marek noticed first when he came back after a long day. The brass plate on the door should've read 12B, but instead it was just smooth, dull metal - like someone had carefully erased the engraving while he was away. He stood in the hallway for a moment, keys hanging between his fingers, listening. The building was too quiet. Not empty-quiet. Wrong-quiet. Like sound had been turned down instead of removed. He tried the key anyway. It didn't fit. That was the second thing that didn't make sense. Marek checked the hallway. Same peeling wallpaper. Same flickering light above him. Same smell of old dust and wet concrete. But the doors… the doors were all identical now. No numbers. No peepholes. Just flat, gray slabs stretching in both directions like teeth in a jaw. His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost didn't answer. Then he did. “Hello?” he said. A pause. Then his own voice answered back. But slower. Slightly delayed. Like it was being dragged through water. “You're late,” it said. Marek froze. “Who is this?” A faint sound came through the speaker. Breathing. Not on his side. On the other side of the call. Close. Too close. “You always come back late,” the voice continued, gently disappointed. “That's why it remembers you.” “Who remembers me?” A soft click echoed through the hallway behind him. Marek turned. The door he had been trying - his door - was open now. He hadn't opened it. Inside was his apartment. At least, it looked like it. The same furniture. The same crooked shelf. The same flickering lamp. But everything was facing the wrong direction. The couch was turned toward the wall. The bed was pressed against the ceiling. The paintings hung with their backs outward. As if the room was designed to be lived in from somewhere else. The phone line went silent. Then the voice whispered: “Don't go in unless you want it to notice you properly.” Marek backed away slowly. His heel hit something soft. He looked down. A second keyring lay on the floor. Same keys as his. Except one was missing. His. From the key he was holding. He checked his hand. The key he had been holding… wasn't there anymore. Inside the apartment, something shifted. Not a sound exactly. More like attention. Like the room had realized it was being watched. The lamp flickered once. Twice. Then stayed on. And in the glow, Marek saw it. A silhouette standing in the middle of the room, perfectly still, facing away from him. It raised a hand. Waving. Not at him. At the hallway behind him. Marek didn't move. The phone buzzed again in his pocket. He already knew who it would be. Still, he looked. New message: “Don't turn around.” But Marek did. Of course he did. Because behind him, the hallway was gone. There were no doors anymore. Just his apartment door. Closed. Numberless. And slowly, from the inside, something began turning the lock.