As dawn approached, she walked into the residential area.
It wasn't the clean light of early morning, but a sky already drained of color. The clouds were low and pale, as if they'd been washed out, with frayed edges, lacking clear definition.
There was a slight dampness in the air.
Not the wetness after rain, but the lingering moisture from the night, sticking to the skin, making one instinctively want to pull their collar higher.
She walked neither quickly nor slowly.
Her steps were steady, not deliberately softened, and not dragging. Her center of gravity remained balanced, her steps landing with almost no need for adjustment.
When she realized this, she hesitated for a moment.
In the past, she would occasionally trip or be a beat slow when turning corners. Now, every movement landed exactly where it should, as if pre-calculated.
From a distance, she appeared no different from any other pedestrian.
She even remembered to avoid puddles.
That was when she realized she wasn't walking by instinct. She was simply following old habits—even though she wasn't sure if those habits still belonged to her.
The security booth at the entrance to the complex was empty.
The door was ajar, the light inside still on, harsh and glaring. On the desk, a half-drunk cup of tea stood, cold, with a ring of brown residue around its rim.
As she passed, her gaze lingered on the glass.
Her reflection appeared there.
The outline was clear, with no trailing blur.
She raised her hand and touched her own face.
The skin felt real, not that delayed sensation like touching through a membrane. When her fingers pressed down, she could feel warmth.
Nothing unusual.
This confirmation gave her some reassurance, although she wasn't quite sure what she'd been worried about.
She entered the residential complex.
The space between buildings wasn't wide. The sky still hadn't fully brightened, but early risers were already stirring. Some were walking dogs, their leashes leaving small arcs on the ground; some carried trash bags, the faint clink of glass bottles inside; others stood smoking outside their buildings, smoke drifting lazily in the cold air, reluctant to dissipate.
She passed them all.
No one called her name.
No one looked at her directly.
She felt their gazes, but as she neared, those gazes quickly averted, as if automatically yielding to her presence.
This smooth passage felt strangely unfamiliar.
She had braced herself for diverted glances, deliberate detours, or perhaps some sudden wariness. But nothing happened.
She was simply allowed to pass.
This feeling of being allowed left her momentarily unsure of where to direct her attention.
Until she reached a building and was about to enter the unit door.
A little girl stood by the door.
The girl wore a backpack, the straps a bit too long, hanging by her sides, swaying gently with her movements. In her hand, she held an unfinished sausage, its packaging crumpled, the grease gleaming on the plastic.
The girl seemed to be waiting for someone, tapping her toes on the ground in a rhythmic yet uneven manner.
As she approached, the girl looked up.
Their eyes met.
In that instant, the sounds around her didn't disappear but seemed to be slightly muffled.
The girl didn't scream. She didn't back away.
She simply stared for a moment, her brow furrowing as if confirming something she couldn't quite grasp. Her expression wasn't fear but more like the sudden realization that something was "off," without knowing why.
Then the girl stepped aside.
The movement was natural, like making space for a stranger.
But the step was larger than necessary, almost pressing her against the wall. The girl's shoulders lifted, her back tightening slightly, as if giving herself a safety buffer.
She walked past the girl.
She didn't touch her.
But in that fleeting moment, as they brushed past, she distinctly felt—
The girl's breath falter.
Not in a panicked way, but the instinctive reaction when one realizes "this is too close."
She didn't look back.
She knew that if she did, things would inevitably move to the next stage.
She entered the stairwell.
Half the lights were broken, and the motion sensors were slow. It wasn't until she had walked halfway up that the lights flickered on with a faint electrical crackling.
As she ascended, her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty space, causing her to instinctively slow down.
She heard her own breathing.
It was steady, without disruption.
That steadiness felt unfamiliar.
At the third-floor landing, a man was descending.
His steps paused for a moment when he saw her.
He looked at her, then looked again.
The second glance lingered a little longer, as if comparing something.
She stopped.
They looked at each other across a few steps.
The man's expression wasn't straightforward.
It wasn't fear but rather an unprocessed confusion—an expression that had sensed something out of the ordinary but hadn't yet decided whether to acknowledge it.
"You…" the man began, then stopped.
She waited.
He swallowed.
"Do you... live in this building?" he asked, his voice a whisper, like he was afraid of disturbing something.
She nodded.
The gesture was almost instinctive.
The man's shoulders visibly relaxed.
"I thought…" he began but trailed off.
"Thought what?" she asked.
Her voice was steady, even more natural than she had expected.
The man shook his head.
"Nothing. Probably just not fully awake."
As he spoke, his eyes shifted away from her, toward the corner of the wall, almost as if seeking an escape route.
He stepped aside to let her pass.
As they brushed past each other, she felt his body tense again, as if the brief relaxation had been only temporary.
That tension didn't come from her face.
It felt more like it came from some judgment he couldn't voice, dared not confirm.
She kept walking up.
But inside, her heart slowly sank.
Not because she had been seen through.
But because she realized that someone had begun noticing, yet hadn't yet found the words to name it.
She reached the floor where she had once lived.
The door number was still there.
The edges of the numbers were slightly worn, as if repeatedly touched by hands.
The door's color hadn't changed.
She stood at the doorway, hesitating to knock.
Inside was very quiet.
Too quiet.
She pressed her ear to the door, trying to hear any sounds from inside, but all she could hear was her own breath echoing in the hallway and the faint hum of distant pipes.
Just then, the door opposite her cracked open.
An old woman's eye appeared.
The woman's eyes were cloudy, but she stared intently, as if she had been watching her for a while, just waiting for her to notice.
They locked eyes for a few seconds.
The old woman didn't look away.
"Who are you looking for?" the old woman asked.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear.
"I'm going home," she said.
Only after the words left her mouth did she realize she hadn't offered any explanation.
The old woman fell silent for a moment.
"This family moved out two days ago," she said, her tone firm.
She froze.
"Impossible," she said.
This time, she heard the uncertainty in her own voice.
The old woman didn't argue. She just looked at her again, as if confirming something already known.
"Did you get the wrong building?" the old woman asked.
She wanted to explain.
But the words caught in her throat, and suddenly, she didn't know where to start.
She wanted to say this was her home.
Say the child was inside.
Say she came and went from here every day.
But at that moment, all those words felt too light, as if they might be carried away by the air at any moment.
The old woman slowly closed the door.
The click of the lock wasn't loud, yet it felt like a final confirmation.
She stood in the hallway, unmoving for a long time.
Until footsteps echoed from below.
More than one person.
Their rhythms were uneven, but they were all heading in her direction.
She glanced down at her hands.
Her fingers were steady, not trembling.
That made her realize something else—
It had been a long time since she'd truly panicked.
The voices from below grew clearer.
Someone spoke in a low tone.
Not casual chatter, but the deliberately hushed exchange of information.
"...You saw it too?"
"Saw what?"
"That person just now."
"Which one?"
"Stop pretending."
The footsteps stopped downstairs.
Someone looked up, toward the stairwell.
Their gaze passed through the dim light and settled on her.
In that moment, she suddenly understood—
This wasn't the first time they'd seen her.
It was the first time they'd all simultaneously realized they'd "seen" each other.
No one spoke.
The air felt tighter.
She stood still.
Neither retreating nor stepping forward.
Suddenly, she realized something.
She no longer needed to prove who she was.
Nor did she need to prove whether she was human.
Because these questions were slowly shifting from her to them.
And they had already begun to realize—
Some existences aren't monsters.
They had simply reached the point of no return
one step ahead of them.