The crying started at 2:14 a.m.

  Somchai knew the time because he had just poured hot water into his cup. The steam fogged his glasses. He lifted them off with one hand and wiped them on his shirt. The sound came through the monitor before it reached his ears. A thin noise. High and uneven. It cut through the hum of the air conditioner in the security room.

  He froze with the cup halfway to his mouth.

  The sound stopped.

  Somchai stood there for a moment, listening. He set the cup down slowly. The spoon inside rattled against the rim.

  He leaned closer to the screen. Floor 19 showed its usual empty hallway. The sandals were still outside 19B. The lights flickered once, then steadied.

  The crying came back.

  It was quieter now. Like it was coming from far away. Or like something was blocking it.

  Somchai reached for the volume control and turned it up a notch. The sound sharpened. It was a baby. He was sure of it. He had three grandchildren. He knew that sound.

  He picked up the phone and hovered his finger over the call button for the building manager. Then he lowered it again.

  He waited.

  On Floor 19, a door opened. The woman from 19A stepped out in her nightshirt. She looked down the hall, then back into her unit. She stepped out again, barefoot, and walked toward the elevator.

  The crying stopped as she passed 19B.

  She pressed the elevator button. The doors took a long time to open.

  When they did, she stepped inside and disappeared.

  Somchai watched the hallway until the screen went quiet again.

  At 6:30 a.m., the building woke up.

  Doors opened. Shoes scraped. Someone dragged a suitcase down the hall, bumping it against the wall with each step. The crying did not return.

  Narin woke to his alarm.

  He sat up and turned it off. The room was too quiet. He stayed sitting for a while, staring at the wall across from the bed. The paint had a small crack near the corner. He hadn’t noticed it before.

  He got up and went to the kitchen.

  The kettle was empty. He filled it and set it on the stove. He stood there while it heated, his hand resting on the counter. When it boiled, he poured the water too fast and spilled some on the floor. He wiped it with a dish towel and left the towel on the counter.

  He ate toast without sitting down.

  At 8:00 a.m., he left the unit.

  In the elevator, a young couple stood close together. The woman glanced at him, then at the floor number display.

  “Do you hear it too?” she asked her partner, quietly.

  “Hear what?” he said.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  They got off at Floor 12.

  Narin stood alone the rest of the way down.

  At the lobby, Somchai nodded to him.

  “Morning,” Somchai said.

  “Morning,” Narin said.

  Somchai hesitated.

  “Sir,” he said. “Last night. Did you. Hear anything?”

  Narin stopped.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Hear what?” he asked.

  Somchai shifted his weight.

  “Sometimes the building. Makes noise,” he said.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Narin said.

  He walked past the desk and out the door.

  By noon, three posts had appeared on the condo forum.

  One was titled Floor 19 noise again.

  Another said Baby crying at night.

  The third just said Is anyone else hearing this?

  People replied quickly.

  Probably pipes.

  Old buildings make sounds.

  Someone on 19 must have a newborn.

  A user named MoonRiver89 wrote, There was a death there recently.

  Someone replied with a crying emoji.

  At 2:00 p.m., Dao stood in her bathroom and filmed herself washing her face.

  The ring light was on. The phone was balanced against a stack of books. She leaned close to the mirror and rubbed cleanser into her skin in small circles.

  “Self care today,” she said to the camera. “It’s important to stay grounded.”

  She rinsed and looked up.

  For a moment, her reflection lagged. Just a fraction of a second. Enough for her to blink and lean closer.

  “Did you see that?” she asked, then laughed. “Probably my phone.”

  She finished filming and turned the light off.

  Later, while editing, she heard the crying.

  She paused the video.

  The sound came again. It seemed to come from the phone speaker, but the video timeline was silent.

  She took her earbuds out and listened.

  The crying stopped.

  She shook her head and went back to editing.

  That evening, the neighbor from 19A knocked on Somchai’s desk.

  “I can’t sleep,” she said. “It’s happening again.”

  “What’s happening?” Somchai asked.

  “The baby,” she said. “It cries at night. Not every night. But enough.”

  Somchai nodded.

  “I’ll file a report,” he said.

  “Who lives there now?” she asked.

  “No one,” Somchai said.

  She stared at him.

  “Then whose baby is it?” she asked.

  Somchai did not answer.

  At 11:50 p.m., the crying returned.

  This time, it lasted longer.

  On Floor 19, two doors opened. A man stepped out in pajamas. He walked down the hall and knocked on 19B. He waited. He knocked again.

  No one answered.

  The crying continued.

  The man rubbed his face and went back into his unit.

  Downstairs, Somchai picked up the phone.

  He dialed the number written on a scrap of paper taped to the desk.

  It rang twice.

  “Hello?” a man said.

  “Ajarn Phum?” Somchai asked.

  There was a pause.

  “Who is this?” the man asked.

  “My name is Somchai,” he said. “I work security at a condo. There is. A situation.”

  Another pause.

  “Is anyone hurt?” the man asked.

  “No,” Somchai said. “Not anymore.”

  Silence.

  “Then why are you calling me?” the man asked.

  “Because no one else will come,” Somchai said.

  The line stayed quiet.

  “What floor?” the man asked.

  “Floor 19,” Somchai said.

  He hung up and looked back at the monitors.

  At 12:23 a.m., the elevator doors opened on Floor 19.

  A man stepped out.

  He wore plain clothes. A light shirt. Dark trousers. He carried nothing. He did not look around.

  He walked down the hall and stopped in front of 19B.

  The crying stopped.

  Somchai leaned forward.

  The man knocked once.

  The sound echoed down the hallway.

  No one answered.

  The man placed his hand on the door. He did not push. He did not knock again. He waited.

  After a moment, the door opened.

  Not wide. Just enough.

  Somchai watched the screen closely.

  He could not see inside.

  The man stepped in.

  The door closed behind him.

  Somchai checked the time.

  At 12:47 a.m., the door opened again.

  The man stepped out.

  He paused in the hallway. He looked at the sandals on the floor. He bent down and straightened them.

  Then he walked to the elevator and pressed the button.

  As he waited, the crying began again.

  It was softer now. Slower.

  The elevator doors opened. The man stepped inside.

  Before the doors closed, he turned and looked directly at the camera.

  In the security room, Somchai’s phone buzzed.

  A message appeared on the screen.

  The name was saved as Ajarn Phum.

  It read, The death was ruled accidental. The crying is not.