The footsteps upstairs

I heard them for the first time on a Tuesday: calm footsteps, from one end of the bedroom ceiling to the other. There and back. At ten past three, every night, with a punctuality that ended up being the most unsettling thing of all.

I wouldn't have worried if I didn't live on the top floor.

Above me there is only the roof terrace: a metal door, aerials, water tanks. One night I went up with my phone torch, at five past three, and waited by the door. The terrace was empty and cold. At exactly ten past three I heard them again — clear, calm, from one end to the other.

Below me. In my bedroom.

I crept down the stairs and found no one: the unmade bed, the closed window, my half-finished glass of water. Everything in order.

I don't go up anymore. I stay in bed and listen to them pace across the ceiling, and I've learned to fall asleep to them. I only lie awake on the nights when they stop right above my head, as if whoever is upstairs were listening too.