There are buildings that breathe.
Not with wind through windows or pipes in the walls — but with memory.
They remember footsteps, voices, doors opened at the wrong hour.
They remember the people who enter… and the ones who never quite leave.
Most tenants never notice.
They blame the creaks on age, the shadows on bad lighting, the unease on imagination.
But sometimes, someone listens closely enough.
Sometimes, someone realizes the silence isn’t empty — it’s waiting.
And when a place begins to wait for you,
it’s already too late to pretend it’s just an apartment.