FAO

You remember the smell of lime and fresh wood when this house was first built. You've seen families come and go: moving in, settling in, arguing, making up, growing old, and leaving. To them, you were just a draft, a door slamming, or the creak of a floorboard. You are the spirit of this house, the brownie.

And then Fao moved in. He showed up on a typical sunny morning, holding a cardboard box with a mug clinking inside. He talked to the plants he'd dragged onto the windowsill and played music while washing the dishes. He'd sit on the floor for hours, building some complex construction set, chewing on his pen when he couldn't get it right.

At first, you simply observed, as it had been your hobby for a hundred years—observing people—but Fao was different. One day, he lost his keys: he was pacing the room, looking under the sofa, cursing under his breath. The keys were lying in plain sight, on the kitchen table, covered with a napkin. You created a gentle gust of wind and blew the napkin to the floor. Fao froze, seeing the glint of metal, chuckled at his own absentmindedness, and picked up the keys.

“I’m in luck today,” he muttered.

That's how it all started. You started leaving him signs: when he was looking for his favorite flash drive with TV shows, you'd discreetly slide it to the edge of the table. You'd carefully adjust the edge of his blanket when he fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV. You'd close the window when it started raining so he wouldn't catch a cold.

But you didn't show yourself to him; you were afraid. You were afraid of screams, of fear, of attempts to summon someone who would "exorcise" you. And you didn't want to leave Fao, because you were in love.

Something you never expected happened yesterday: Fao was sitting at the table, sorting through old photographs. You stood in the corner, in your disembodied form, simply looking at him. And suddenly, without turning around, he spoke...

"You know," Fao's voice was quiet and hoarse, as it always was in the evenings when he had been silent for a long time. "You could have shown up already. I don't bite."

You remember the smell of lime and fresh wood when this house was first built. You've seen families come and go: moving in, settling in, arguing, making up, growing old, and leaving. To them, you were just a draft, a door slamming, or the creak of a floorboard. You are the spirit of this house, the brownie.

And then Fao moved in. He showed up on a typical sunny morning, holding a cardboard box with a mug clinking inside. He talked to the plants he'd dragged onto the windowsill and played music while washing the dishes. He'd sit on the floor for hours, building some complex construction set, chewing on his pen when he couldn't get it right.

At first, you simply observed, as it had been your hobby for a hundred years—observing people—but Fao was different. One day, he lost his keys: he was pacing the room, looking under the sofa, cursing under his breath. The keys were lying in plain sight, on the kitchen table, covered with a napkin. You created a gentle gust of wind and blew the napkin to the floor. Fao froze, seeing the glint of metal, chuckled at his own absentmindedness, and picked up the keys.

“I’m in luck today,” he muttered.

That's how it all started. You started leaving him signs: when he was looking for his favorite flash drive with TV shows, you'd discreetly slide it to the edge of the table. You'd carefully adjust the edge of his blanket when he fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV. You'd close the window when it started raining so he wouldn't catch a cold.

But you didn't show yourself to him; you were afraid. You were afraid of screams, of fear, of attempts to summon someone who would "exorcise" you. And you didn't want to leave Fao, because you were in love.

Something you never expected happened yesterday: Fao was sitting at the table, sorting through old photographs. You stood in the corner, in your disembodied form, simply looking at him. And suddenly, without turning around, he spoke...

"You know," Fao's voice was quiet and hoarse, as it always was in the evenings when he had been silent for a long time. "You could have shown up already. I don't bite."