The hallway on the nineteenth floor had a new smell.

  It was sharp and chemical, like fresh paint or bleach. Somchai had his cleaning cart parked near the elevator doors. He was wiping the handrail with a cloth that left wet streaks behind. The cloth looked thin and gray and already tired.

  “Management said we should keep it clean up here,” he told me, not looking up. “People have been complaining.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

  A door down the hall opened. A young man stepped out holding a mug. He took a sip, then paused, staring into the space in front of him. He tilted his head.

  “You hear that?” he asked.

  “What?” Somchai said.

  The man listened again, then shook his head.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Thought I did.”

  He went back inside and closed the door gently. The latch clicked once, soft.

  Somchai dipped his cloth into the small bucket on his cart. The water inside was cloudy and faintly blue. He wrung the cloth with both hands. Drops fell onto the tile.

  “Sometimes I hear crying,” he said. “Sometimes I hear someone laughing. Sometimes I don’t hear anything at all.”

  “From where?” I asked.

  He glanced toward 19B.

  “Mostly there,” he said.

  The fruit container was still sitting on the counter inside the unit. I had checked earlier. The takeout bag had been thrown away. The trash can was empty except for the folded paper.

  “Did they move out?” I asked.

  “No,” Somchai said. “Not yet.”

  The elevator dinged. A woman stepped out holding a basket of laundry. She shifted it on her hip. The basket made a hollow plastic sound.

  “Do you smell that?” she asked.

  “The cleaner,” Somchai said.

  She nodded. “No. Something else. Like… I don’t know.”

  She shook her head and walked down the hall. The laundry inside the basket shifted and rustled.

  When she passed 19B, she paused. She leaned slightly toward the door. Then she straightened and kept walking.

  “What did she hear?” I asked.

  “Didn’t ask,” Somchai said.

  I walked down the hall. My shoes made soft steps against the tile. At 19B, I stopped and listened. The door was closed this time.

  I pressed my ear against it.

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  Nothing.

  Then, faintly, a sound. It wasn’t crying. It wasn’t laughter. It was something like water moving through pipes. Or wind passing through a small space.

  I knocked.

  No answer.

  A man from across the hall stepped out, holding a set of headphones.

  “You trying to get in there?” he asked.

  “I’m just checking,” I said.

  He listened, then frowned.

  “Sounds like a cat,” he said. “Like it’s scratching at the floor.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  He nodded. “You don’t hear it?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked at the door again, then slipped his headphones on and went back inside.

  Somchai came over with his cloth and wiped the area near the door handle. He did it slowly, carefully, like the handle might move.

  “You should not stay here too long,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because everyone hears something different,” he said. “And they think it’s only them.”

  The elevator dinged again. Another resident stepped out. An older woman with a small dog tucked under her arm. The dog’s ears were pressed back flat.

  “Is that baby still crying?” she asked.

  Somchai paused.

  “I don’t hear anything,” he said.

  She looked confused for a second. Then she nodded and carried the dog down the hall. The dog looked toward 19B, then buried its face into her arm.

  I checked my phone.

  No new messages.

  “Did Narin call you?” I asked Somchai.

  “No,” he said.

  “Did May?”

  He shook his head. “No one calls me.”

  We stood there for a moment. The hallway lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere, a faucet was dripping, slow and steady.

  A man in a dark shirt stepped out of the stairwell at the far end of the hall. His hands were empty. He looked around, then walked toward us.

  Somchai straightened his name tag.

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  The man nodded. “Afternoon.”

  He looked at the door of 19B.

  “Do you hear it?” he asked.

  “What do you hear?” I said.

  He shrugged. “It depends.”

  He leaned slightly closer to the door, listening. Then he stepped back.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Not yet what?” I asked.

  He looked at me, then at Somchai.

  “You both should say what you came here to say,” he told us.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

  Somchai folded his cloth and placed it back into the bucket.

  “We are only working,” he said.

  The man nodded.

  “Then you will keep working,” he replied.

  He walked past us and down the hall. His steps made almost no sound.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Some people call him Phum,” Somchai said. “Some people call him something else.”

  We watched the elevator doors at the end of the hall close behind him.

  The hallway felt still again.

  I took out my folder and pretended to check the unit listing. The paper edges rubbed together under my fingers.

  “Everyone hears something different,” Somchai repeated quietly. “That is how this building stays full.”

  I left him there and went down to the lobby.

  The woman from earlier was still sorting her mail. The child was awake now, pressing his toy and making a small clicking rhythm against the floor.

  “Did you hear it today?” she asked.

  “Hear what?”

  She glanced toward the elevators. “Anything.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  She nodded. “That’s good.”

  Outside, the street noise was loud and ordinary. Motorbikes. Vendors. People talking. I stood there for a moment, holding my folder against my chest.

  Up on the nineteenth floor, the lights in 19B stayed on.

  Inside, the room with the best view remained empty, waiting for someone to listen.