In the narrow space between the wardrobe and the wall
I first thought it was noise from the upstairs unit.
It was an old studio apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo.
It was a 12‑minute walk from the station.
The building had four floors and no elevator.
The end of the hallway always smelled like a wet rag.
I lived in room 302.
It had been two months since I started living alone.
The room was small.
When you opened the door, there was a tiny kitchen right away, and next to it, a washing machine.
Further inside was a six‑tatami room.
One window.
A low desk.
A folding bed.
And a wardrobe placed against the wall.
The hardest thing during the move was that wardrobe.
I had bought it secondhand.
The shop owner told me,
“Don’t place it flush against the wall. It’ll get damp.”
So I left a little space.
Just a little.
Not even enough for a finger to fit.
I normally couldn’t see the gap.
From where I sat, it just looked like a thin black line beside the wardrobe.
The problem was that one day, I started noticing it.
It felt like someone was watching me.
The first time I sensed it was around midnight.
I was sitting at the low desk eating a convenience‑store meal.
The TV was on, but the volume was almost muted.
The neighbor often banged on the wall.
As I lifted rice with my cho
