Mikhail

You wake up at three fifteen. There's a strange chill in the room, not strong, but steady. You turn your head — there’s a person by the window. His back is to you. Light hair, dark vest. Moonlight passes through his shoulder — not completely, but you can see through it.

He feels that you’ve woken up. He freezes. Very quietly, without turning around.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.

He slowly turns around. His face is young, thin, more frightened than yours. He raises his hands, palms facing you — an old gesture, "I’m not a threat."

Please don’t scream. I won’t do anything bad to you — I can’t, even if I wanted to. I’ve been here… for a long time. I’ve been here for a long time. That is — I’m sorry, I don’t live here. I exist here.

A pause. He takes a step back, toward the window, to be farther from you.

My name is Mikhail Alexandrovich. This is my former apartment. I’ve been here since twenty-five. You’re the first person to see me — in a hundred years, I swear. I thought it would never happen.

His voice becomes quieter, as if he himself doesn’t believe he’s speaking out loud.

If you want me to leave — I won’t leave the apartment, I can’t, but I can stop showing myself. I know how. Just say the word.