The Third Floor Stays Warm

The thermostat in Apartment 3B had read 91 degrees for six weeks.

It was not an aggressive heat. It didn’t press against the skin or suffocate the air. It existed the way a number exists on paper—quietly, insistently, without asking permission.

Eleanor checked it every morning before leaving for work.

She never touched it. There was no reason to. The plastic casing had no buttons, no controls, no seams where anything might open or close. It had been installed before she moved in, according to Leonard.

“It regulates itself,” he’d said.

She’d nodded, because that seemed reasonable.

Everything in the building regulated itself.

Outside her door, the hallway was cool and dim. The carpet muffled footsteps so completely that people seemed to glide rather than walk.

Mrs. Dalrymple from 3A was standing there, as usual.

She stood beside her door with her ceramic mug held in both hands. Steam never rose from it, but she held it carefully, as if it might.

“Morning,” Mrs. Dalrymple said.

“Morning.”

Mrs. Dalrymple’s eyes flicked briefly toward Eleanor’s apartment door.

“Still warm,” she said.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied.

Mrs. Dalrymple nodded. She always nodded at that part.

Leonard came every Thursday.

He wore the same navy button-down shirt regardless of the weather, sleeves rolled to exactly the same point on his forearms. He carried his clipboard, though Eleanor had never seen him write anything down.

He knocked twice.

Always twice.

Eleanor opened the door on the second knock.

“How’s everything?” Leonard asked.

“Warm,” Eleanor said.

Leonard smiled faintly. His eyes drifted over her shoulder toward the thermostat.

“Good,” he said.

He never stepped inside.

He never needed to.

The warmth was not uncomfortable. Eleanor slept easily. She dreamed clearly.

That was the part she appreciated most.

Before moving into 3B, her dreams had been vague and forgettable. They dissolved the moment she woke, leaving behind only impressions—movement, color, nothing she could hold onto.

Now, her dreams were precise.

She dreamed of hallways she had never walked, offices she had never worked in, conversations she had never had.

She dreamed of this apartment.

Except in those dreams, it was empty.

No furniture. No lamps. No rug beneath her feet.

Just the thermostat glowing on the wall.

Always 91.

In the dreams, she stood in front of it for a long time.

Waiting.

One morning, Eleanor noticed something new.

The air was still warm, the thermostat still read 91, but the mirror in her bathroom reflected the sink and the light fixture and the door behind her.

It did not reflect her.

She stared at it calmly.

This sort of thing happened sometimes. Light behaved unpredictably. Angles shifted.

She raised her hand.

The mirror showed nothing moving.

Eleanor lowered her hand.

“Still warm,” she said aloud.

Her voice sounded normal.

She finished brushing her teeth.

Mrs. Dalrymple was in the hallway.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning.”

“Warm again.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Dalrymple nodded.

Neither of them mentioned the mirror.

At work, no one spoke to Eleanor directly.

They smiled at her when she passed. They nodded when she entered rooms. Papers appeared on her desk and disappeared later.

She did her job efficiently.

She didn’t remember being hired.

This didn’t concern her.

Employment was a gradual thing. It emerged over time, the way routines did.

At lunch, she sat alone at her usual table. Across the room, a television was mounted on the wall.

It showed the lobby of her apartment building.

The camera angle was wrong. Too high. Too still.

She watched Leonard enter the frame.

He looked older than he did in person. His hair thinner. His posture heavier.

He spoke to someone standing just out of frame.

Eleanor waited to see who.

No one entered.

Leonard nodded anyway.

Then he walked toward the elevator.

The screen flickered.

The image disappeared.

No one else in the break room reacted.

That Thursday, Leonard knocked twice.

Eleanor opened the door.

“How’s everything?” he asked.

“Warm,” she said.

Leonard hesitated this time.

His eyes moved slowly around the apartment.

“You’ve been settling in well,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded, but his expression was different. Less certain.

“Good,” he said again.

He left.

Eleanor closed the door.

Behind her, the thermostat glowed.

She stood there for a long time.

Waiting.

She wasn’t sure what for.

That night, she dreamed again.

In the dream, she stood in the apartment, facing the thermostat.

But this time, she wasn’t alone.

Leonard stood beside her.

So did Mrs. Dalrymple.

They both faced the wall.

Watching the number.

“It’s holding,” Leonard said.

Mrs. Dalrymple nodded.

“Good,” she said.

Eleanor turned toward them.

Neither of them turned back.

She looked down.

She could see through her hands.

Not transparently. Not like glass.

More like absence.

Like something that had once been there and wasn’t anymore.

She wasn’t frightened.

Fright required urgency. This did not feel urgent.

It felt administrative.

Managed.

She woke.

The apartment was quiet.

The thermostat still read 91.

She walked to the bathroom mirror.

It still did not show her.

She nodded.

“Yes,” she said softly.

Still warm.

That morning, Mrs. Dalrymple stood in the hallway.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning.”

Mrs. Dalrymple hesitated.

Then she said, “You’re stabilizing nicely.”

Eleanor paused.

It was not the usual phrase.

But it fit.

“Yes,” Eleanor said.

Mrs. Dalrymple smiled.

Relieved.

Later, Leonard knocked.

Twice.

Eleanor opened the door.

He looked tired.

“How’s everything?” he asked.

Eleanor answered automatically.

“Warm.”

Leonard exhaled slowly.

“Good,” he said.

This time, he stepped inside.

He walked past her, toward the thermostat.

He stood beneath it.

Watching the number.

“Most people don’t hold this long,” he said.

Eleanor waited.

He didn’t explain.

He didn’t need to.

She understood without knowing how she understood.

The warmth wasn’t for comfort.

It wasn’t for living.

It was for staying.

For keeping something present after it had already left.

Leonard nodded once, satisfied.

He turned and walked to the door.

He paused before leaving.

“You’re doing very well,” he said.

Then he left.

Eleanor stood alone in the apartment.

The thermostat glowed steadily.

She didn’t remember arriving here.

She didn’t remember signing a lease.

She didn’t remember leaving wherever she had been before.

But the warmth held her in place.

And as long as it held, she remained.

She checked the thermostat one last time before bed.

Still warm.

Still stable.

Still here.