Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

new routines, city life. Then I started hearing it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, pacing in the apartment above me at all hours. I knocked one night, but no one answered. My calls to management went nowhere—they insisted the apartment was empty. One night, I woke to the sound of someone whispering my name. My heart stopped. I live alone. I didn’t move. The whisper came again, closer, this time from the corner of my bedroom. I turned on my phone’s flashlight. Nothing. Just the shadowed corner,