Murase, the building manager of Cosmo Village Block Three, is — to put it kindly — not a man who inspires confidence.

Block Three is a forty-year-old space housing complex, 21 of its 120 units sitting empty. Vacancy rate: 17.5%. The management company paid bonuses when you got below 15%. Murase had been staring at that number for three years.

Not that the building’s unpopularity was a mystery. The location was just dim. The nearby star was small and unremarkable, which kept the hallways and common areas in a permanent twilight. The energy-saving lights made it worse — you couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Block Two next door sat close to a bright star and had a 3% vacancy rate.

One afternoon, Murase was flipping through the ledger when something snagged his eye. Unit 507 — listed as vacant — had a record of automatic rent deductions every single month. The account name: Ando. The amount matched the current rent to the yen.

“What the—”

He pulled up the management system. Unit 507: status, Vacant. Occupancy sensor: zero biological response. But the payment history went back twelve years without a gap.

Somehow, someone had been paying rent on an empty apartment.

Murase stood in front of the door to unit 507. The “Vacant” sign hung there as usual. He rang the bell. Five seconds passed, and the door opened a crack.

”…Yes?”

A slight man stood inside. Hard to guess his age. His clothes and shoes were almost the same color as the walls — in the dim hallway, his edges seemed to blur.

“Uh, I’m Murase, the building manager. This unit is registered as vacant, but… are you living here?”

“I am.” Ando gave a small nod. “Twelve years now.”

“Twelve years.”

Murase glanced up at the hallway sensor. Nothing. Ando was standing right in front of him, but the sensor light stayed dark.

“The sensor doesn’t seem to be picking you up.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Ando said, without particular concern. “It’s been like that since I moved in. I contacted the management company a few times, but they kept telling me there was no need to respond because the unit was vacant.”

”…Because it was vacant.”

“Right. Vacant, you see.”

And there it was. Sensor doesn’t respond. So the unit is listed as vacant. Because it’s listed as vacant, no one acts on maintenance requests. Because no one acts, the sensor never gets fixed. Because it never gets fixed, the unit stays vacant. Inside that loop, Ando had been paying his rent — every month, to the yen — for twelve years. Or rather, he had. The ledger said so.

“I’m sorry — I’ll fix the registration right now.” Murase took out his terminal. “Vacancy rate — I mean, I’ll get you properly listed as a resident.”

“Please don’t worry about it.” Ando gave a small bow. “I prefer the quiet.”

Murase peeled the “Vacant” sign off the door. From down the hallway came a soft click.

The door to unit 509 opened a sliver, and an equally forgettable face peered out.

“Excuse me. Ours too, actually.”

Murase looked down the corridor. One by one, doors were beginning to open along the dim passage of Block Three.