Tapu woke up to the smell of something burning. For a moment, he thought Paris was on fire—or at least his new life in Flat No. 13 was going up in smoke. He stumbled out of bed, half-asleep, his hair sticking up like a porcupine, and followed the smoky trail into the kitchen.
What he saw almost made him scream louder than he had during the earthquake drill back in college.
Alina stood in front of the stove, wielding a frying pan like it was a weapon of mass destruction. Black smoke curled upward, filling the entire kitchen. The frying pan contained something that might have once been eggs—but now looked like charcoal pieces you'd find on a barbeque.
"Alina!" Tapu coughed, waving his arms to clear the smoke. "Are you trying to kill us? Is this your secret plan?"
Alina turned to him with an innocent smile, her hair tied in a messy bun. "I was making breakfast. You like scrambled eggs, right?"
"Scrambled? This is cremated!" Tapu shouted, pointing at the pan. "Even ghosts wouldn't eat this!"
At that moment, Baguette, their ever-curious dog, walked into the kitchen, sniffed the burnt eggs, and turned away in disgust. Even a dog with zero taste standards knew this was inedible.
Tapu groaned, pulling the frying pan away from Alina. "Please, for the love of God, step away from the stove. Cooking is clearly not your destiny."
Alina pouted. "I was just trying to help."
"If this is your way of helping, then my stomach is safer starving."
After tossing the "eggs" into the trash, Tapu opened the fridge. His eyes widened at the sight inside: a carton of expired milk, a lone carrot that looked like it had fought in World War II, and two cans of beer. That was it.
"We live in Paris," Tapu said dramatically, "the land of croissants, baguettes, and gourmet food. And this"—he waved toward the fridge—"is our tragic love story with poverty."
Alina giggled. "So what do we do?"
"We," Tapu declared, "will do what broke people in Paris always do. Instant noodles!"
Minutes later, both of them sat at the tiny kitchen table, slurping noodles out of mismatched bowls. Steam fogged up their glasses, and Baguette sat nearby, staring at them with puppy eyes, begging for a bite.
Alina slurped loudly, noodles smacking her chin. "Mmm. Honestly, this tastes way better than my eggs."
Tapu sighed, twirling his noodles. "That's because even a six-year-old could make instant noodles without setting the kitchen on fire."
"But admit it," Alina teased, leaning closer, "you secretly enjoyed me cooking for you."
Tapu glared. "If 'enjoyed' means panicking that the fire department might storm into our flat, then yes. I thoroughly enjoyed it."
They both laughed, the kind of laugh that comes when two strangers realize living together might not be the disaster they first imagined.
The Neighbors' Curse
Their noodle party was cut short by a loud banging on the wall.
"QUIET!" a muffled voice shouted in French. "People are trying to sleep!"
Alina froze. "Oops. I think we're being too loud."
Tapu's eyes narrowed. "Sleep? It's 11 in the morning! What are they, vampires?"
Another bang shook the wall, making Baguette bark. Tapu stood up and shouted back, "We're not running a nightclub! We're just eating noodles!"
"SHUT UP!" came the reply, followed by the sound of something heavy slamming on the wall.
Tapu looked at Alina with mock seriousness. "Congratulations. We've officially made enemies on our third day here."
"Maybe we should bake them cookies," Alina suggested.
"With what oven? With what flour? Do we look like cookie magicians?"
She shrugged. "It's the thought that counts."
Tapu smirked. "The thought of poisoned cookies, maybe."
Nightmares Begin
That night, Tapu tossed and turned in his tiny bedroom. Every creak in the flat echoed like a horror soundtrack. The pipes gurgled. The fridge hummed. And somewhere, faintly, a violin played in the distance.
Finally, he fell asleep—only to wake up screaming minutes later. He had dreamt that Baguette was talking in French, accusing him of stealing his dog food.
Tapu sat up, sweating. "What kind of nightmare is that?!"
Just then, he heard a noise. Footsteps. From the living room.
His heart thudded. Burglars? Ghosts? Maybe the angry neighbor had finally broken in with a baguette as a weapon?
He grabbed the nearest thing as protection: a tennis racket.
Creeping into the living room, he saw… Alina, wide awake, munching on noodles straight from the pot.
Tapu lowered the racket. "Are you serious? It's 3 a.m., and you're having a midnight noodle party?"
Alina looked up guiltily. "I couldn't sleep. The flat is… creepy at night."
Tapu nodded slowly. "Finally! You admit it. This place is haunted."
"Don't say that!" Alina shivered. "I'm already scared."
Tapu sighed, setting down the racket. "Fine. But next time, wake me up. If a ghost shows up, at least we can throw noodles at it together."
They both laughed softly, and for the first time, the silence of Flat No. 13 didn't feel so terrifying.
The Noodle Pact
By morning, they had formed a silent agreement: whenever life felt too overwhelming, they would cook noodles together.
It wasn't fancy. It wasn't Parisian. But it was theirs.
Alina stretched, smiling as sunlight poured into the kitchen. "So, what's the plan for today?"
Tapu shrugged. "Step one: avoid burning down the kitchen. Step two: survive the angry neighbors. Step three: buy actual food that doesn't expire before we eat it."
Baguette barked as if agreeing.
And as they sat down for yet another bowl of noodles, both of them felt it—Flat No. 13 was weird, noisy, and maybe even haunted… but it was slowly starting to feel like home.