Letters to the Future Tenant

Letters to the Future Tenant

The first letter fell from the wall like a leaf.

It was a pale yellow note, folded twice, the edges curled with age. Elise had been peeling away the faded floral wallpaper in her new apartment when it fluttered to the floor. She thought it was a scrap of old glue or a receipt left behind by the previous tenant. But then she saw her name written on it — Elise — in soft pencil, the letters slanted and neat.

That stopped her.

The apartment had been empty for months, the real estate agent told her. No one had lived here since the old tenant passed away. Elise stared at the note, the whisper of her name on the paper, and felt a small current move through her body — curiosity, fear, something in between.

She unfolded it.

Dear Future Tenant,

Welcome home. You’ll think this is a coincidence, but you’ll spill coffee on your first night. Don’t worry — the stain comes out if you blot it with salt water.

Trust me.

—A Friend

Elise blinked. She almost laughed. “What kind of joke…” she murmured.

Still, later that night, while unpacking boxes, she reached for a mug and misjudged her grip. The coffee tipped, splashing dark liquid across the kitchen counter and dripping onto the tiled floor.

She stood frozen.

Then, hesitating, she grabbed a towel, soaked it in salt water, and wiped. The stain vanished cleanly, like magic.

Her heart began to beat faster.

The next morning, she pulled at more wallpaper. Not because she needed to, but because she had to. And sure enough, behind a loose seam near the bathroom mirror, she found another folded note.

Dear Future Tenant,

You’ll hum without realizing it when you brush your teeth tomorrow. It’s the same tune I used to hum — from the old radio that never worked right.

If you listen closely tonight, you’ll hear the pipes singing too.

—A Friend

That night, she listened. The apartment was old; the walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. But beneath the hum of her bathroom fan, she heard something faint — a soft, wavering melody. Not quite music, not quite a voice.

She turned off the light. The sound faded.

“Pipes,” she whispered to herself. “Just pipes.”

By the end of the week, Elise had found four more notes.

Each one appeared in a new place: behind the wardrobe, under the kitchen sink, inside the air vent.

Each one predicted something small, something real.

She would break a plate (“It wasn’t your fault; it was already cracked”).

She would forget her umbrella on a day of sudden rain (“Don’t bother buying a new one; the neighbor has a spare”).

She would wake at 3:12 a.m. from a dream she couldn’t remember (“That dream isn’t yours, but mine”).

By the sixth note, she stopped questioning it. Whoever this “Friend” was — psychic, ghost, prankster — she had started to feel their presence in every corner of her apartment.

She spoke aloud sometimes, softly, as if to a roommate who had just stepped into another room.

Then, one evening, she found something different.

Behind the bedroom light switch, wrapped in brittle tape, was a sealed envelope. The handwriting on it was shakier, as if written in a hurry.

Dear Elise,

You’ve found me, then. I wasn’t sure you would — but curiosity is stronger than caution, isn’t it?

There’s something I should tell you. These letters weren’t guesses. They were memories.

I lived your life before you. The walls here don’t let time move in straight lines. They remember. They repeat. They whisper when they think no one’s listening.

I was you once. And now you’re me.

The last thing I remember before writing this was the sound of the upstairs faucet running when no one was home. That’s when it began again.

When you hear the water, don’t turn it off. Whatever happens next — let it.

—A Friend

Elise dropped the letter. It fluttered to the floor, soft as the first one.

She looked up at the ceiling. Everything was still. The apartment seemed to hold its breath.

Then, from above, came the sound of running water.

The next morning, the neighbors said they heard nothing strange — no pipes, no faucet. Elise didn’t mention the letter. She stayed quiet, sorting through her thoughts, trying to convince herself it had all been a dream.

Days passed. She didn’t find any more notes. She began to relax.

But the apartment felt… aware. She noticed tiny shifts — the way the curtains swayed when there was no breeze, the hum beneath the refrigerator that almost sounded like humming.

And one night, while cleaning the counter, her sponge caught on a small tear in the wallpaper she hadn’t noticed before.

Behind it was another folded note.

She hesitated, heart racing, then unfolded it.

Dear Future Tenant,

Welcome home. You’ll think this is a coincidence, but you’ll spill coffee on your first night. Don’t worry — the stain comes out if you blot it with salt water.

Trust me.

—A Friend

Elise stared at the paper.

Her hands trembled. She looked down — and saw the dark spill spreading across her counter, coffee dripping slowly to the floor.

That night, the pipes began to hum again — softly, steadily — carrying a melody she already knew by heart.

The apartment exhaled, satisfied, as if the story had begun all over again.