Tb - Gosty Po

He laughed, assuming it was a stupid prank by the teenagers downstairs. But the tapping continued for days, even with the door locked and bolted. The apartment felt smaller, filled with a heavy, stifling atmosphere, as if the air itself was infected with a memory.

The rain in St. Petersburg didn't just fall; it whispered, tapping against the windowpanes of Anton’s top-floor apartment like bony fingers. Anton, a lonely translator who preferred the company of 19th-century literature to living people, tightened his scarf. The radiator hissed, a pathetic sound, barely fighting off the damp autumn chill. gosty po tb

He tried to ignore it, to read, to work. But one evening, while looking at the mirror, he saw not his own reflection, but the pale, shadowed faces of strangers—people in old, frayed clothes, looking at him with hollow eyes, their mouths open as if trying to speak, to cough, to ask for a place to rest. The Gosty (Guests) hadn't just arrived; they had moved in. He laughed, assuming it was a stupid prank

The hallway was empty. Only the smell of wet plaster and stale tobacco smoke lingered. "Strange," he muttered, closing it. Ten minutes later: Knock... knock... knock. The rain in St

Write a focusing on what happens when Anton finally talks to them.

Throughout the night, the "guests" didn't stop. It wasn't loud, just an annoying, persistent presence. A chair in the kitchen would move an inch. The smell of cheap cigarettes would fill the room, then vanish.

The next morning, Anton found it. On his antique wooden mirror, written in fine dust, were the words: Gosty po TB .