Chapter 13

Every evening at 7:03 p.m., the old man in Apartment 4B set two bowls on the kitchen table.

One for himself.

One for his wife.

The neighbors pretended not to notice.

His wife, Nora, had died three years ago.

Still, he spoke to the empty chair as he stirred soup.

“Careful,” he’d say. “It’s hot.”

He would laugh softly at silences no one else could hear.

“You always blow on it too much.”

The tenants whispered about grief. About loneliness. They said it was sad.

Then children in the building started mentioning the woman.

“The nice lady with the long gray braid,” a little girl said. “She helped me tie my shoes.”

“She gave me peppermint candies,” another child said.

“The lady from 4B told me not to run down the stairs because I’d fall.”

The parents assumed the children were repeating stories they’d overheard.

Until one evening, the power went out.

The hallways plunged into darkness.

A little boy named Sami wandered from his mother’s side, crying as thunder shook the windows.

A hand found his.

Cold.

Thin.

Gentle.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” a woman’s voice whispered. “Your mama’s looking for you.”

Sami was led safely back to his mother.

When the lights returned, he pointed down the hallway.

“The lady with the braid helped me.”

No one was there.

Word spread quickly after that.

The woman from 4B appeared only when someone was frightened.

A teenager having a panic attack on the rooftop felt cold fingers squeeze hers until she could breathe again.

A widower grieving his husband awoke to find a cup of tea placed beside his bed.

A feverish child heard someone humming lullabies through the night.

No one ever saw her clearly.

Only glimpses.

A gray braid.

A soft smile.

The scent of peppermint.

People stopped calling Apartment 4B strange.

Instead, they left small gifts outside the door.

Flowers.

Candies.

Thank-you notes.

The old man never seemed surprised.

“Nora always hated seeing people cry,” he’d say.

One winter morning, the old man didn’t come out to collect his newspaper.

The superintendent unlocked the apartment.

He found the kitchen table set for two.

Two bowls.

Two spoons.

The old man sat peacefully in his chair.

Gone in his sleep.

The neighbors gathered for the funeral.

Many cried.

That night, as snow drifted past the windows, the residents heard footsteps in the hallway.

Slow.

Unhurried.

Then a man’s gentle voice:

“Did you remember the peppermints, Nora?”

A woman’s quiet laugh answered him.

“Of course. The children are still here.”

And from that day on, whenever fear settled into the building, two figures wandered its halls.

Hand in hand.

Kind enough to tuck frightened children back into bed.

Loving enough to stay after death.

Disturbing enough that, every morning, the thank-you notes left outside Apartment 4B were gone—

and replaced with neat little replies written in unfamiliar handwriting.

You’re very welcome.

Sleep well tonight.

We’re watching over you.