Apartment 404

Apartment 404

When I moved into the building on West 72nd, I didn’t think much of the number on the keychain: 404.

It was a small brass tag, etched with faint scratches, the kind that made you wonder how many hands had held it before yours.

The leasing agent, a man named Carl, smiled politely when I asked about it.

“Fourth floor, end of the hall,” he said. “It’s quiet. You’ll like it there.”

He was right about the quiet. Too right.

The elevator chimed softly when it reached the fourth floor.

A hallway stretched out before me — narrow, dimly lit, lined with identical white doors.

Each had a small black number plate: 401, 402, 403…

Then came a blank space.

A wide patch of bare wall where 404 should’ve been.

And after that, 405.

I frowned, looked at the key again, then ran my hand over the wall between 403 and 405.

To my surprise, the key clicked against something metal — a tiny slot, almost invisible, flush with the paint.

When I pushed, a hidden door swung open.

Inside was my new apartment.

It wasn’t large, but it was clean. One bedroom, one living area, a kitchen that smelled faintly of lemon polish.

Everything was in order — except for the mirrors.

There were too many of them.

One above the sink, another across from the bed, and a third behind the couch. All perfectly clean, perfectly aligned.

I could see my reflection from every corner, multiplied like a kaleidoscope of self.

Still, I shrugged it off. Maybe the last tenant liked mirrors.

That first night, I slept deeply. The kind of sleep that feels like falling through fog.

When I woke, sunlight poured through the blinds in soft golden stripes. I felt rested, calm — until I opened the door to the hallway.

The building was silent. No footsteps, no voices, no hum of the elevator.

And when I glanced toward the far end of the hall, the door marked 403 was gone.

Just smooth wall.

Days blurred.

I’d leave for work in the morning, nodding to Carl at the front desk — though he never seemed to remember my name.

“Moving in soon?” he’d ask, as if he’d never seen me before.

I’d laugh awkwardly. “Already did.”

“Oh?” he’d frown. “We don’t have any new tenants this month.”

I tried to show him my lease, but when I opened my phone, the email with the document was gone. Deleted.

The sender’s address was blank.

That night, I walked the hall again.

Every door was there — 401 through 405 — but mine.

Only the key still fit the hidden lock.

Inside, everything looked the same — except the mirrors.

They were different.

In the reflection, the furniture had shifted. The lamp was turned off, though it glowed behind me in the real room.

And my reflection — she wasn’t moving with me anymore.

When I lifted my hand, she hesitated.

When I turned my head, she smiled.

The next morning, I went down to the management office with my lease folder in hand.

A woman at the desk looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m in Apartment 404.”

Her eyes flickered. “We don’t have a 404.”

I blinked. “Fourth floor, end of the hall. My rent’s auto-paid. You can check.”

She shook her head, typing into her computer. “404 is a maintenance closet. Has been since the renovation. No one’s lived there in years.”

I laughed, but it came out brittle. “You’re mistaken. I was literally just there.”

She gave me a patient smile — the kind people reserve for the confused or unstable.

“Would you like to speak with our building therapist? Sometimes transitions can be stressful.”

That night, I packed my bag. I told myself I’d leave first thing in the morning.

But when I opened the front door, the hallway stretched on infinitely — no elevator, no stairs, no end.

Every few meters, the same four doors repeated like a glitch in a video game.

401. 402. 403. 405.

No 404.

I turned back, trembling. My door was gone too. Only a wall.

But my key still sat warm in my palm.

I pressed it against the wall, and it clicked.

The hidden door swung open again, revealing the apartment — identical, except the mirrors were gone.

And sitting where my couch had been… was me.

She looked up, smiling softly. “You found your way back,” she said.

Her voice was mine, but calmer. Older.

I wanted to speak, but no sound came out.

She stood, crossed the room, and handed me the brass key.

“Every tenant comes home eventually.”

Then she walked past me — out the door — and it closed behind her.

I turned the key in my hand. The number on the tag shimmered briefly, fading from 404 to 405, then disappearing completely.

And when I looked around, the mirrors were back — but only one reflection remained.

Mine.

Or maybe hers.