The neighbours said the man had been single. A quiet type. A teacher. Never loud. Never late. Always polite.
But then came the girl.
Smiling.
Too much.
Too often.
She showed up at his school one day — said she was his fiancée.
No one had seen her before. No one had heard of her.
But she had a key to his apartment.
She had his toothbrush.
She had his clothes.
She moved in the next day.
And she started cleaning.
Not just the apartment.
She cleaned *him*.
She scrubbed his skin raw with loofahs and bleach until it turned pink and raw.
She cut his nails. His hair. His beard.
She even cleaned his thoughts.
"You don't need to talk to them," she'd whisper. "They don't understand love like we do."
He tried to resist. Once.
He said he wanted to visit his sister.
She didn't say anything.
She just cleaned the kitchen.
For hours.
After that, she stopped speaking to him.
It was worse than yelling.
He begged her to talk.
She finally did.
"You broke your promise."
"I'm going to fix you."
She took a scalpel — the same one she used to carve his skin — and sliced open his eyelids.
"Now you'll see only me."
She didn't let him sleep.
She sat by his bed and watched.
Smiling.
Forever.
The next morning, the janitor found her humming in the hallway.
She was covered in blood.
But she was smiling.
Always smiling.