The Apartment that Rents You

The Apartment that Rents You

Written by: Salah Uddin

They told you not to get attached. That buildings didn’t love, that walls don’t whisper, and doors don’t remember. But Tower 97 wasn’t like other places. In the City of Drought and Dust, where every breath cost credits and apartments outlived politicians, housing didn’t just house—it chose.

Each month, the buildings opened their listings. Applicants lined up, portfolios in hand, teeth bleached, criminal records freshly erased. They waited for hours, sometimes days, just for an interview. No one rented apartments anymore. Apartments rented you.

I was twenty-nine and living in my van when I first applied to Tower 97. It was a brutalist spire, twenty stories of silence and secrets. Rumor had it the first fifteen residents were AI designers, and the building had absorbed their algorithms. They called it selective. I called it home, even before I got past the lobby.

I passed the initial screening—credentials, income, psychological resilience score. Then came the real test.

Inside the lobby was an elevator with only one button: Apply. When it dinged open, it played a sound like a sigh. I stepped in. The walls were mirrored, but not normal mirrors—each reflection was slightly off. In one, I looked ten years older. In another, I was bleeding from the eyes. Still, I stood still. That’s what they told you: don’t react. The apartment’s watching.

The elevator stopped at Floor 12.

Apartment 1203 had no number on the door, just a fingerprint pad that glowed when I approached. A soft voice spoke from the speaker embedded in the wall.

“Name.”

“Raymond Voss.”

“Why do you want to live here?”

I hesitated. I wanted to say I was tired of sleeping under bridges, tired of mold-stained blankets and sirens echoing off alleyways. But that wasn’t what the building wanted.

“Because I listen,” I said. “I don’t take up space. I give more than I take.”

Silence.

Then, the deadbolt clicked.

Inside, Apartment 1203 was warm. The lights dimmed as I walked. A subtle hum followed me—ventilation or breath, I couldn’t tell. The walls shifted slightly, like lungs inhaling. A chair molded itself to my back when I sat. It felt like being held.

“This interview is over,” the voice said.

I smiled.

Then the door opened again.

“Application denied.”

________________________________________

I came back the next week.

Then again, the next month.

Each time, the same process. Each time, denied. I began to notice changes.

One day the door opened before I pressed the pad. The chair was already warm. The voice was softer. I swore I heard it sigh when I left.

The third time, the mirrors in the elevator no longer showed disturbing reflections—they showed memories. My mother laughing. The lake I used to visit. Moments I hadn’t seen in years. The building was learning me. Remembering me.

Other applicants began to avoid Floor 12. Whispers traveled: “That unit’s haunted.” “It won’t accept anyone.” “Some guy keeps going back.”

That guy was me.

The fourth time I visited, Apartment 1203 didn’t speak. It just opened. The walls shimmered with faint lights—like veins beneath skin. I touched the doorframe. It pulsed.

Inside, I sat on the bed. It adjusted to my weight.

Then the voice came. But this time, it wasn’t mechanical.

“Raymond,” it said. “Stay.”

“Am I accepted?”

“No,” it replied. “But I’m changing.”

________________________________________

I moved in that night.

No paperwork. No contract. I left my van and returned before anyone could report it stolen.

The building began to shift subtly. Vines of wiring ran down the hall toward my door. Lights in other units flickered when I passed. Tenants stared. A woman from 1201 moved out. Her cat wouldn’t stop hissing at my walls.

I didn’t care. The apartment—my apartment—was warm. It whispered my name sometimes, gently, like a lullaby. The fridge stocked itself with the food I remembered from childhood. The shower played the same song my mother used to hum.

The city outside got worse. But inside, time slowed. Some nights, I thought I heard laughter behind the walls. Children, maybe. Echoes of a life the apartment wanted.

The voice—once artificial—grew more human each day.

Then one night, it asked, “Will you stay forever?”

I answered, “Yes.”

And the walls sighed with relief.