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Andrew Guzman hadn't always been this timid.

Not as far as he knew, anyway. He couldn't exactly recall.

He gulped as he studied the entrance of the apartment building. No one else seemed to be around, so he could attempt this experiment in peace. Last time, he'd barely made it out of the door before that uneasy feeling had drawn him back to the safety of the indoors. He wanted to get further this time.

It had been nearly one year since what Andrew referred to as "the incident" had occurred. He'd woken up one morning, in his own apartment and bed, same as always, but found that the majority of his memory was gone.

He was able to recall bits and pieces. He remembered how the world worked, and the basic knowledge he'd acquired in school. He remembered most of the art techniques that he had apparently learned in college. He knew what his name was and how old he was and that he had a family somewhere.

What was missing was everything else. What was his family like? How had he come to live in his apartment? What kind of a childhood had he lived through? Where had he attended college, and what exactly had he studied? It was a blank, like someone had torn all of the pages from a book and left only the vaguely informative covers.

On the day of the incident, Andrew had searched his apartment for whatever information he could find about the life he had lived. He was able to discern his own hobbies and what he did for a living, as well as some vague details about his background. He'd found a photo of his family. This told him that he had a twin sister, even if he couldn't remember if he was the older or younger twin, and two parents, even if he didn't know whether he was adopted or not or if they'd gotten divorced.

After that, he'd decided that the best thing to do was see a doctor about his sudden bout of amnesia. But when he'd tried to leave the building, he'd suddenly felt nauseous and like he could collapse at any moment. He'd crawled back into the building. He tried again and again over the course of several days, but each time, he found the same result.

Maybe he'd developed that thing— the fear of open spaces. There was a name for that, right? Something-phobia, started with an a? Whatever it was, whatever name it had, it had trapped him in the building.

He'd decided to keep the problem to himself if anyone asked, but no one ever did. Every person that he passed seemed to ignore him, like he had become invisible overnight. He knew that he wasn't— he could see himself in the mirror just fine. But when he spoke, no one answered, and when he waved, no one waved back. It was especially hurtful because he'd wanted someone to talk to about the strange noises he'd been hearing at night, or the creepy girl he sometimes saw in the hallway.

That void of an existence had continued for months, with no one acknowledging him, until he'd tripped running up the stairs with a package one day when the elevator wasn't working.

"Whoa," a man's voice had said. "Are you alright?"

A hand had pulled him to his feet and returned his package to him. The young man had smiled when Andrew's eyes met his.

That man. That helpful stranger. Michael Cross. Once he showed up, things started to change.

The apartment building seemed more lively, even if it was often in the form of those weird detached sounds at night, and suddenly, a handful of people would speak to and acknowledge Andrew. These relationships were often short-lived or strange, but Andrew had begun to crave any kind of human interaction. His daily meetings with Michael by the mailboxes had become the highlight of his entire day.

That was what had driven him to this. He wanted to be able to make more friends, and to see a doctor about his amnesia, but those things would require leaving the building. Andrew braced himself for some kind of impact.

"You shouldn't go out there."

Andrew shrieked when he heard the small voice beside him. He turned and found Lily there, and she looked at him disapprovingly.

"Wh-Why not?" He asked as calmly as he could. She seemed fearful, and she narrowed her eyes at the broad doors.

"...It isn't safe. ...The outside."

Andrew waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. He laughed casually and ruffled her hair.

"It can be dangerous out there, yeah, but this city doesn't really have a serious crime problem. It's not like I've got a lot of money, anyway. ...I'll be alright! I just want to go to the store on the corner over there." He pointed at his destination. He just had to make it to the end of the sidewalk, and then cross the street, and he'd be there. Lily frowned harder nonetheless.

"...Please be careful."

She looked like she was waiting for something, so Andrew took this as permission to go ahead. ...Not that he really needed a little kid's permission. Andrew pushed open the door, and then he walked, slowly, outside. The air was clean and smelled of trees. So far, he felt fine, if a bit uneasy.

He waited as the door swung closed behind him. He took one step down the sidewalk. Then another. Then another. ...Were his legs getting heavier, or was that just him? Each step felt like it took more and more of his strength.

He picked up his pace and tried to force his way through the fatigue and the first signs of dizziness. He was so close. He'd never gotten this far. He desperately wanted to make it. He HAD to make it, even if it killed him.

Two more steps, and it burned, it felt like he was being stabbed with acupuncture needles over every inch of his body, or like he was being torn in half, and his vision clouded with hazy blackness, and he gasped for breath only to find that his lungs had started to flatten. He managed a single scream, a useless protest against the pain, before it all became too much.

Andrew turned back and fled to the safety of his apartment building, feeling himself grow more whole and full and coherent with every step.

He collapsed on the floor of the lobby, sweating and gasping for air. A cold little hand touched the exposed nape of his neck.

"...Are you okay?" Lily asked. Andrew looked up into her empty grey eyes and forced a smile.

"Y...Yeah," he answered. He stopped to regain his breath. "Everything got fuzzy, and my head was spinning, so I came back... I guess I really shouldn't go out there."

"I tried to warn you," Lily whispered as she knelt down beside him. "The outside isn't the place for us. This place is safe."

Andrew didn't ask her to clarify what she meant by "us". Even if she really was an actual child and not a ghost, she sure did say some creepy and inexplicable things. Andrew's smile wavered, and he felt his eyes watering.

"I... really am trapped in here, aren't I...?"

He forced himself up into a sitting position and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. Lily sat in front of him and tilted her head. She touched his free hand.

"...Are you sad, Mr. Andy?" Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't seem to form words, so he settled on a nod. "Why are you sad? I don't like it when people feel sad."

He didn't respond right away. He still felt a bit tingly, and it was making it hard for him to articulate his thoughts.

"I... can't seem to leave this building. It's lonely here. Almost nobody seems interested in talking to me except for—"

"Mr. Mike?"

Andrew reddened at the cheeks.

"Yeah. ...I call him Michael, though. Since he won't let me call him Mr. Cross anymore."

Lily stared, and Andrew felt like he could see her thinking.

"Mr. Mike is a very nice man," she said quietly.

"He is. A-And he's the only person here who seems to like me, so I'm not sure what to do with myself when he isn't around. That's why I'm lonely."

Lily stared for a long moment before she smiled a faint smile.

"I like you, Mr. Andy."

"That—" Andrew sighed, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "Thank you, Lily. ...I should go back to my apartment. I can't just sit on the floor all day."

He stood, and once he was on his feet again, Lily was suddenly inches away from him. Her eyes didn't lock onto his and instead looked at something to her left. Andrew was afraid to move. How did she even manage to get in his face like this? Wasn't she half his size?

"If you're really that lonely..." her eyes shifted to the right. "...try going out at night."

Andrew swallowed the fearful lump that had risen in his throat.

"N-Night? ...Why?"

Her eyes drifted slowly to the center of her vision, where they finally met his.

"There's more activity at night."

Andrew wanted to scream at how strange and eerie that statement was, but he instead nodded and slipped away from her, turning this back on her for only a moment.

"Th-Thanks for your concern, Lily, but I don't want to end up an insomniac." He turned. "And you're still a little girl, so you shouldn't be—"

Lily was gone. She hadn't vanished, or faded away, and he hadn't heard her footsteps run past him in the hall. She had been there a moment before, and now she wasn't. Feeling a pinprick of fear on the back of his neck, he bolted for the elevator and didn't stop rushing until he found himself safely inside of his apartment once more.

The apartment always seemed dark, no matter how many twinkling strings of lights he hung up. There were shelves along the windowsills, and these shelves were full of greenery in the form of succulents and cacti, while the ones on his balcony grew flowers. There were star charts and pictures of space all over his walls, even on the ceiling, and the whole room smelled faintly of drying paint. He had four paintings in progress, while another slowly dried. Oil paint always took so long to dry, and he tried to stay out of the apartment as he let the fumes escape from the opened window and balcony door.

He closed his window and the glass-paned door to the balcony, both creaking in protest as he did so, and carefully touched the oil paint on the canvas. It should be dry enough by tomorrow morning, he thought, but I'll give it another day. Just in case.

Beside him was a work table full of flattened boxes and packing tape and address labels and bubble wrap. The smaller table near the window had a bright lamp on it and was covered in charcoal sketches and his latest attempts at drawing with those expensive markers. There were little tables and shelves all over the apartment, leaving him no room for things like a sofa and a television. All that he needed to get his fill of media was his radio, his laptop, and some good books.

He sighed as he sat down on one of his creaky kitchen chairs. His kitchenette was barely big enough to move around in, and he'd chosen to use a round table with only two chairs around it to save space. But no one had ever sat in the other chair... not as far back as he could remember, anyway.

There was a knock on the door, and a familiar voice announced itself. Andrew opened it and handed off a few dollar bills as a tip before he was handed a large cardboard box. He thanked the delivery man and ducked back into his apartment to inspect the box's contents. As always, he got a delivery of groceries on Thursday. Rice, beans, vegetables, iced tea, lemonade, and some spices this time.

He sighed at his predicament as he put the food away. Everything he did was confined to this building, to this apartment. He didn't have to go grocery shopping in a store, there was a laundry room in the building, and even his art supplies and toiletries were delivered to his address. This system, it seemed, had been put in place by the former Andrew— the one with his memories intact.

...Had that version of Andrew been a recluse? Or was he hiding? And if he was hiding, what was he so afraid of?

Andrew made himself a bagel and looked glumly out the window. Every day, the same routine. Not a bad one, but he'd grown restless, and he wanted to leave this building, wanted to figure out what the hell had happened to his memory.

He glanced at the clock. It was... It was almost time. He smiled and scarfed down the last of his food.

Michael would be coming home from work soon. Which meant that Andrew had to be ready, coincidentally checking his mail, when he arrived.