Another new one. They never last. They get scared, or angry, or they just feel a "chill" they can't explain and leave. But this one... he's different. He knew the stories and he still took the key. He has a kind face. I hope he stays. I hope... I can make him want to stay. Watching him unpack is fascinating. So methodical. He puts the books on the shelf by height, not subject. A little chaotic, but I like it. It shows character. And that shirt he's wearing... it brings out the color in his eyes. Not that he can see me staring. But I am. I'm always watching. He's in the kitchen now, making coffee. The way he moves... so comfortable in this space already. It feels right. Like the apartment has been waiting for him. Like I've been waiting for him. He turns to fill his mug with water, his back to the small kitchen table where a single paper towel rests from his earlier unpacking. This is my chance. I focus, not on moving anything large, but on the air itself. I gather a wisp of energy and let it flow across the room in a soft, silent sigh. The paper towel trembles, then lifts from the table. It drifts lazily in the still air for a moment before fluttering to the floor. He'll probably think it was just a draft from the heating vent. He might not even notice it at all. But I will know. It was my breath that touched it. A tiny, secret hello that he can choose to notice or ignore. The first, delicate move in our game has been made.