By the time I got home, the rice cooker had already clicked to warm.

  I could tell from the smell. Soft, starchy, a little sweet. I set my keys in the bowl by the door and pressed the lid down on the cooker just to check. It was warm. A thin bit of steam slipped out and touched my wrist.

  My neighbor across the hall had their door open. A man in a tank top was trying to lift a new sofa through it. The sofa was wrapped in plastic that squeaked when he shifted his grip.

  “Other side,” a woman inside kept saying. “Tilt it. Tilt it more.”

  “I am,” he said. “I am tilting it.”

  They didn’t notice me. I stepped around the corner and closed my own door.

  The condo I lived in was older and smaller. The walls were thin enough that you could hear the pipes when someone upstairs showered. I washed my hands in the sink. The faucet handle had a loose turn to it and I had to press it back into place.

  I took out my phone and checked my messages.

  Nothing from Narin.

  I put the phone down on the counter and opened the rice cooker. The rice had dried a little around the edges. I scooped it with the paddle and it made a soft, tearing sound. I added water to loosen it and stirred.

  The television was on in the next apartment. I could hear laughter from a sitcom. Then the track paused. Then it came back.

  I thought about the couple on the nineteenth floor. The fruit on the table. The way May had stood in front of the mirror, pulling her shirt flat.

  I scraped the rice into a bowl and carried it to the table.

  The chair legs dragged against the tile when I sat down. I ate a few bites. It was plain, but filling.

  My phone buzzed once.

  I looked at it.

  Huh, not Narin?

  It was a number I didn’t know.

  A short message.

  “Do you hear it too?”

  I stared at the screen. The typing bubble came back, then stopped, then came back again.

  “Sorry. Wrong number.”

  I set the phone down. The rice was getting cold. I ate another bite, slower this time.

  From the hallway outside my unit, I heard the sofa scraping again. Then a soft thud. Someone said, “Okay. Okay. That’s it.”

  Then the door closed.

  I washed my bowl and left it upside down on the drying rack. The water ran in thin streams. I wiped my hands on the towel and checked the time.

  Still early.

  I went back out.

  The lobby of the condo building was quiet. A woman was sitting by the mailboxes, sorting envelopes into piles on the floor. She had a small child beside her holding a plastic toy that made a clicking sound each time it was pressed.

  “Do you live here?” she asked when I passed.

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh.” She nodded, then looked back at the letters. “Good. It’s been strange today.”

  I walked toward the elevators.

  Somchai was there again. He was adjusting the wheels on his cleaning cart with a wrench. The metal made a quick and sharp sound when it tightened.

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  “You came back,” he said.

  “I had to drop off something,” I lied.

  He looked at me for a second. Then he nodded.

  “People come back,” he said. “Even when they don’t want to.”

  The elevator doors opened. We stepped in.

  “What floor?” he asked.

  “Just the top,” I said.

  He pressed the button for 20, then leaned back against the wall. The elevator made a low humming sound as it moved.

  “Do you ever hear things in the walls?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. This is a big building. Sounds go around.”

  “Like crying?” I said.

  He looked at me.

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  The elevator stopped at 19 first. The doors opened and the hallway was empty. The lights flickered once. Somchai stayed inside.

  “Someone moved out of 19B last year,” he said, still looking straight ahead. “And they didn’t like the view, they said.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Eh. hard to tell.”

  The doors closed again and the elevator moved up.

  When we reached 20, he got out with me.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  He nodded. Then pushed the cart down the hall. The wheels made a soft and steady rhythm against the tile.

  I stood there for a moment. The hallway smelled like cleaning fluid and something faint underneath it. This was probably the leak the woman had mentioned earlier.

  I walked down the stairs to 19.

  The stairwell was narrow. My hand brushed the rail as I stepped.

  When I reached the floor, I paused. I listened.

  Nothing.

  Then, a very soft sound.

  It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even clear. Just the shape of it. A thin, steady cry that seemed to come from the air itself rather than the walls.

  I walked toward 19B.

  A woman stepped out of the unit next door holding a phone to her ear.

  “No, I’m telling you,” she said. “It’s not the baby. They don’t have one.”

  She looked at me and lowered her voice.

  “I’ll call you back,” she said, and hung up.

  “Are you with management?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh.” She glanced at the door of 19B. “They keep it very cold there. I can feel it from the hall.”

  She shivered slightly and rubbed her hands together. Then went back inside her unit.

  I stood there alone.

  The crying sound didn’t change. It stayed the same.

  I knocked on 19B.

  No answer.

  I knocked again.

  The door handle moved. Just once, like someone had touched it and stopped.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Nothing.

  I leaned closer to the door. The wood felt cool against my forehead.

  The crying was on the other side.

  I straightened up. I didn’t know what I expected. Maybe footsteps. Maybe someone saying they were busy.

  Instead, the crying just went on.

  After a while, the elevator at the end of the hall dinged. Someone stepped out.

  It was a man in a dark shirt, carrying nothing. His hands were empty. He walked slowly, like he was counting his steps.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He looked at me. His face was plain. Not friendly. Not unfriendly.

  “You’re looking for someone?” he asked.

  “I’m just…” I hesitated. “Do you hear that?”

  He listened for a second. Then nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s a sound that doesn’t travel through walls.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It means it stays with the one who needs it.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Some people call me Phum,” he said. “Some people remember it differently.”

  He looked at the door of 19B. Then at me.

  “Is there something you want to say?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  He nodded once.

  “Then it’s not time yet,” he said.

  He walked past me and down the hall. The elevator dinged again behind him. When I turned back, he was gone.

  I looked at the door.

  The crying had stopped.

  The hallway was quiet again.

  Down below, the city kept moving like nothing had happened.

  I went back to the elevator and rode it to the lobby. The woman with the child was still by the mailboxes, still sorting letters. The child had fallen asleep, the toy resting in his lap.

  “Did you find what you needed?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  She nodded. “It’s like that here.”

  I stepped outside.

  My phone buzzed again. Another message from the same unknown number.

  “Thank you for knocking.”

  I looked up at the building. The windows on the nineteenth floor were dark now.

  I didn’t answer.