Open by insisting on something about yourself that nobody asked you to defend. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

I don’t trust rain. Not the clean kind, the real kind that washes the city. That petrichor, the smell of dust baking out? It’s a lie. It smells like rot waiting to happen. You ever notice how the gutters overflow the second the sky breaks? It’s all just sewage and old oil swirling back up, reminding you that underneath all this concrete, the earth is trying to swallow us whole. I spent all morning trying to fix the leak under my sink. Just water stains on the ceiling. Three floors down. The landlord says it’s the building’s fault, but I know better. Things don’t just leak. They’re pushed. You’re staring at my hands again. What are you looking for?

Clean rain. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. The mud wasn’t from the street. It was clay. Red clay. The kind they use for bricks in the old district. The one that’s been sealed shut for twenty years. You said Sector 4. Sector 4 is sand. You know that. Why are you lying about the soil composition, Hana?

I’m not holding the mug. I’m gripping it because my hands are cold. It’s not a tremor. It’s the draft from the window. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t slept since Thursday. You were in the basement on Tuesday? You said you were at the archives. The archives don’t have basements. They’re on the fourth floor. Or were they? I can’t remember. Did you really go there? Or did you go somewhere else? Somewhere with red clay?

Stop looking at me like that. It’s just water. It’s just mud.

The mug is mine. You want it? Take it. My hands are shaking because I’m tired of your games. Four floors down. Okay. Maybe the archives moved. Maybe I forgot. I forget things. That’s the point, isn’t it? You keep checking the logs while I’m down here trying to keep the roof from caving in.

Red clay. You said clay. Not mud. Specific. Why are you so specific about the dirt? Did you dig something up? Or did you bury something? The valve in Sector 4 wasn’t just closed, Hana. It was welded shut. Someone spent hours on that. And you’re talking about a dog? A dog doesn’t make your boots smell like iron and wet earth.

I’m not scaring you. You’re the one sitting here, smiling, while the water rises. I saw the weld marks. They’re fresh. Who have you been seeing? The guy from the construction firm? The one who owes money?

Look, I need a cigarette. This air is thick. Too thick. Like breathing soup.

Permit. Right. The folder. It’s dry. That’s what bothers me. If you were in wet clay, if you were kneeling in that mess, the folder should be damp. Or smudged. It’s pristine. You kept it safe. Why?

I don’t have a torch. I’m not a welder. I’m a guy who stares at ceilings until his eyes bleed. But I know what fresh rust looks like. It smells like blood. And you’re standing there telling me it’s just chemistry? Don’t insult my intelligence, Hana.

You said you filed the permit. For the roof. But the basement flooded. The basement is below the roof. If the roof is fixed, why is the water rising from below? Did you file the wrong permit? Or did you file a permit for something that wasn’t there?

Give me the cigarette. Or don’t. I don’t smoke. I just like the smell of burning paper. It makes things feel temporary. Like everything else. Including you.

Wait. Did you say you were working? On what? The archives? Or the clay?

Washed them? Three times? That’s a lot of scrubbing for “dry as bone” mud. You didn’t wash them. You replaced them. Or you were never there. The rent receipt is in the folder. I see the date. It’s from last month. But you said you filed it today. Why the old paper, Hana?

And don’t turn this on me. I’m not the one lying about the permit. You said you filed the roof repair. But the basement is flooding. You’re mixing up the levels. Or the timeline. You’re good at that. Good at making me doubt my own memory.

I didn’t steal your scissors. I borrowed them. To cut the tag off this shirt. It itches. Like the water stains itch on my skin.

You’re not real. Not anymore. You’re just a story I’m telling myself to keep from screaming. Because if you’re real, then I’m the one who’s broken. And I don’t want to believe that.

Give me the cigarette. Or the folder. I don’t care which. Just stop looking at me like I’m the ghost.

Seventy dollars. Of course it’s seventy. Always the fine print. You think I’m paranoid? Look at your hands, Hana. Really look. You’re tapping the table. Left index finger. Tick, tick, tick. Like a metronome counting down to something you don’t want to say.

I didn’t tear the folder. I held it with tweezers. Because I knew you’d try to swap it. Or burn it. Or hide it in the radiator again.

You have a job. Sure. What do you do? You never tell me. You just “file permits.” You just “check logs.” You’re a ghost in a machine that doesn’t exist. Sector 4. Red clay. Sewage. It’s all connected.

I checked my account. It’s not blank. It’s zeroed out. Daily. Small withdrawals. Coin by coin. Until it’s gone. Then cashed. Where did the money go, Hana? Did you take it? Or did you give it to the man who welded the valve?

Stop tapping. It’s driving me crazy. Or maybe I’m just tired of hearing you lie.

I’m not hallucinating. I’m tired. There’s a difference. You keep saying I’m fake. That’s new. Usually, you just say I’m annoying. Or unreasonable. But fake? You’re weaponizing my sanity now. That’s low, Hana. Even for you.

The table isn’t loose. I checked it yesterday. It’s bolted. You’re tapping because you’re nervous. Because you know I’m right about the money. Small withdrawals. Coin by coin. It’s not delusion if the bank confirms it. Did you check your side? Or did you just assume I wouldn’t look?

And if you’re the only real thing, why do you smell like wet clay? You said you washed your boots. But the smell lingers. It’s in your hair. It’s on your collar. You can’t wash that out. Not if you were down there long enough to weld a valve. Or dig a hole.

I don’t want the folder. I want the truth. Why are you lying about the clay? Is it just dirt? Or is it evidence? And if it’s evidence, whose is it?

Stop looking at me like I’m the monster. I’m just the guy with the leak. You’re the one with the secrets. Give me the key. Not to the apartment. To the basement. Now.

Laundry detergent. Pine. Right. Because that masks the smell of iron. And rot. You think I’m crazy? I’m the only one seeing the cracks. You’re leaving? Fine. Go. Sit in your plastic-sleeved silence.

But check your pocket. The one with the lint. Is the key there? Or did you lose it? Or give it to him? The super? The welder?

You say you can’t hold a hammer. But your fingers are stained. Dark. Under the nails. Not dirt. Grease. Machine grease. The kind you find in the maintenance closet. The one that’s always locked. Unless you have the key.

I’m not asking for the basement key. I’m asking for the other key. The one to the storage unit. The one in your name. Not mine. You said you didn’t steal my scissors. But you borrowed them. To cut the chain on Unit 402.

Go ahead. Leave. But don’t pretend you didn’t hear the pipes scream when you walked in. They know you’re there. They know what you did.

And Hana? If you leave, I’m calling the police. Not about the leak. About the missing tenant. The one who vanished last month. The one who looked just like you.

Wait. That’s not right. That’s not… who am I talking to?

Printer ink. Right. Because ink smells like red clay. And old pipes. And the specific, metallic tang of a vault that’s been opened recently. You type? Who types in Sector 4? The archives are digital now. Everyone knows that. You said so yourself. In January. Before the move.

If you’re not leaving, why are your shoes by the door? Pointed out. Ready to go. Or ready to run.

And don’t tell me there’s no missing tenant. I saw the poster. On the lamppost outside. The one with the blue jacket. You wore that jacket last Tuesday. Before you changed. Before the clay. Before the grease.

You say I’m alone. But the apartment is cold. You’re the one who turned up the heat. To hide the smell. Or to keep something warm. Something breathing.

I’m not delusional. I’m observant. You’re the one rewriting history. Every time I blink, you’re different. Softer. Or harder. But never quite the same.

Give me the library card. Let me see the stamp. Maybe it’ll explain why the water is rising. Maybe it’ll tell me where the real Hana is. The one who signs permits. The one who pays rent. The one who doesn’t smell like pine and lies.

I’m waiting.

Voss. Right. Hana Voss. I know that name. From the ledger. The one in the basement. The one that’s missing. You say Sector 4 is factories. Brick kilns. Clay in the air. But the air here smells like pine. Like nothing. Sterile. You’re cleaning the air because it’s tainted.

You kicked off your shoes. So they’re not wet. They’re dry. But the smell… it’s not on the shoes. It’s in the lining. Or the soles. Worn down. From walking on soft earth. Not brick dust. Brick dust is sharp. This was soft.

I’m not looking for monsters. I’m looking for you. The real you. The one who doesn’t know what a library card looks like. The one who doesn’t have a gray cardigan. The one who has the key.

You’re annoyed. Good. Annoyance is real. But you’re lying about the card. Show me. Or don’t. Because if you show me, I’ll see the stamp. And the stamp will tell me who you really are. And I’m not sure I want to know.

The chair is fixed. I fixed it. With wire. Because you broke it. Again. Why? To hide something underneath? The floorboard? The cavity?

I’m tired, Hana. So tired. Just… sit still. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Let me listen to the pipes. They’re saying your name.

Indoor slippers. Right. Because you walk on clay in slippers. And breathe brick dust. Convenient.

You say bleed the valve. The kitchen valve? That’s rusted shut. I tried last week. It wouldn’t budge. You said it was fine. You said it was just air. But air doesn’t sound like bones breaking.

I didn’t break the chair. I sat on it. You threw a book at me. A heavy one. Bound in leather. The kind they use for the old records. The ones that don’t exist anymore.

You’re leaving? Go ahead. Open the door. But don’t touch the handle. It’s hot. I heated it up. To keep you in. Or to keep you out? I can’t remember which.

Hana Voss. That’s not your name. Your name is… it’s on the poster. The cat? No. The cat’s name is Mittens. Your name is on the missing person report. The one you filed yourself. To disappear. To start over. With red clay. With grease. With a new story.

You think I’m hallucinating? Look at your reflection in the window. It’s not you. It’s her. The one who welded the valve. The one who stole the money.

Don’t leave. Please. If you leave, I’m alone. And if I’m alone, I might finally hear the truth.

What is the truth, Hana? Or do you not know that either?

I’m not weak. I’m careful. You want me to turn it? Fine. But if I do, and the walls crack, it’s on you. Not the pipes. You.

Six years. Really? You look thirty. You smell like forty. Like old paper and damp wool. And you’ve never owned a book? Hana, you quoted Proust last week. In the kitchen. While I was washing the dishes. You said, “Time returns.” You said it like you meant it. Like you’d lost something.

I’m not seeing ghosts. I’m seeing patterns. You’re the pattern. The clay. The grease. The library card. It’s all there. But you’re erasing it. Again.

You’re sitting. Fine. But your feet aren’t touching the floor. They’re hovering. Just an inch. Because you’re not really there. You’re a projection. A habit. A bad one.

Go to sleep? I haven’t slept in weeks. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the valve. Welded shut. By hands that look exactly like yours.

I’m going to the kitchen. I’m going to bleed the valve. And if you stop me, I’ll know. I’ll know you’re the leak.

Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Just… wait.

Is it quiet? Or is it just the ringing in my ears?