The Woman in Apartment 313

When I moved into my apartment building last month, the hallway was always silent — except for Apartment 313.

Every morning, I’d leave for work at 8:00 a.m., and there she was — a woman in her 30s, wearing a pale green sweater and holding a steaming cup of tea, standing in the doorway of 313.

She’d smile politely and nod.

“Morning,” I’d say.

“Lovely weather,” she’d always reply — even when it rained.

At first, I thought nothing of it. Just a neighbor with an early morning habit. But it became... unsettling.

Every. Single. Day.

Same time. Same cup. Same sweater.

Same sentence.

It never changed. Not once.

One rainy Wednesday, I stopped in the hallway and said, “Finally some rain, huh?”

She smiled again. “Lovely weather,” she replied.

I laughed awkwardly. “You're always so cheerful.”

She blinked once, tilted her head slightly — like a confused puppet — then walked back into her apartment and shut the door. No goodbye.

It was weird. But city people are weird. So I moved on.

The next day, she wasn’t there.

I felt strangely disappointed.

On Friday, she was back — same routine.

But something was different. Her tea was cold. I saw no steam. The cup didn’t even look wet. And her sweater had a small tear near the shoulder I hadn’t noticed before.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

That weekend, I ran into Mr. Salman, the building’s janitor. A kind, elderly man who knew everyone.

“Hey,” I asked casually, “who lives in 313?”

He looked at me strangely. “Nobody.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Been empty for months,” he said. “Girl who lived there moved out last year. Place is locked up.”

I laughed nervously. “You must be mistaken. A woman lives there. She’s out there every morning.”

His face turned serious. “Are you feeling okay, son?”

“I see her daily,” I insisted. “She stands in the doorway, holds a cup of tea—”

Mr. Salman shook his head. “No one’s been in that flat. I clean the hallway every morning. If someone was standing there, I’d know.”

That night, I dreamed of her.

She stood in the hallway, staring into my apartment through the peephole. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. Her mouth opened unnaturally wide and whispered, “Lovely weather.”

I woke up in a cold sweat.

The next morning, I waited.

8:00 a.m. sharp.

She was there.

Same smile. Same cup. Same sweater — but the tear had gotten larger.

I stepped closer.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you live here?”

Her smile didn’t fade.

“Lovely weather,” she replied.

Something about her eyes unsettled me. They were too wide, too fixed. I looked at her hand — the teacup was dusty. Not a drop of liquid inside.

I turned to knock on Mr. Salman’s maintenance door. “Please come. She’s there. You have to see.”

He followed me into the hallway.

But it was empty.

313’s door was closed. No woman. No cup. Just silence.

“You need rest,” he said gently. “Sometimes, this building does strange things to new people.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

I waited again the next morning.

She was back.

But her face… her smile looked wrong. Her eyes were gray. Her hair slightly messier.

And then I noticed something horrifying.

There was blood under her nails.

I stepped back.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then tilted her head again.

“Lovely weather,” she whispered.

The hallway light above her flickered. For a moment — I swear — her reflection appeared behind me in the glass window, even though she was in front of me.

I ran.

That afternoon, I broke into 313.

I shouldn’t have. I know that. But I had to know.

The door was surprisingly easy to unlock. Inside, the apartment smelled of dust and age. Furniture covered with sheets. No sign of life.

Except on the dining table.

A single mug sat there. Dusty. With dried blood on the rim.

My stomach turned.

I opened the closet.

Inside were several identical green sweaters.

And next to them — a photograph. It was the woman. Younger, smiling.

On the back, in faded ink:

"Zahra, 1997. Loved rainy mornings."

But this was 2025.

I left the apartment, locked the door, and told no one.

Now, I leave for work at 7:30.

I don’t want to see her.

But sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see the door of 313 creak open.

And sometimes, at night, I hear a whisper in the hallway outside my door:

“Lovely weather.”