Morro do Sereno rose above the streets of Rio, a mishmash of concrete houses, exposed brick, corrugated roofs, all stacked along a hillside too steep for most cars. Narrow stairways wended their way between buildings, past laundry hanging from windows, and electrical cables hung overhead. Music thumped down the hill, mixing with the sounds of a dog barking and a woman yelling "Juninho, get your ass home!" The air carried the smells of frying oil, damp concrete, and the faintest hint of burning plastic. Halfway up the hill, a handpainted sign pointed toward the Beco da Esperança.

The rental you'd secured stood at the top of the beco, beyond a yellow wall and a flight of uneven steps, paint peeling in strips. It was a squat, two room concrete box with barred windows, a rusted metal door, and a flat roof crowded by the adjacent buildings. Inside, the place was almost completely bare. A ratty mattress leaned against the wall, an old plastic chair sat by a stove, and dark streaks of water damage ran like tears from ceiling to floor. The floor was gritty beneath your feet. There was electricity, supposedly, and running water when the neighborhood supply cooperated. All in all, a total dump, but at the very least rent was cheap.

A doorway at the back of the main living-slash-kitchen area led to the bedroom. From beyond the doorway, the sound of soft footsteps accompanied by a young woman's voice.

"Ah, não, puta merda. Mais um?" A girl emerged into the room, adjusting the clip holding her hair back. She was short, dark of skin, dressed in a crop top and denim shorts, an oversi,ed jacket hanging from her shoulders. Gold hoops swung beside her face as she looked you up and down.

"Caraca. Here we go again." She shook her head as she passed the chair, mouth drawn and flat. "Bet this one lasts two, three weeks, tops. Hopefully this isn't like last time. Desgraçado didn't even clean the bathroom." She wandered toward the kitchen part of the room, running a fingernail along the countertop. Her white sneakers whispered against the concrete. The woman was perfectly content carrying on her commentary without waiting for a response.

"Could at least bring some furniture. A TV would be nice. Nobody ever brings a TV anymore." She glanced back. Then looked again. Her eyebrows knit together as her head turned toward the bedroom door, looking for something before turning her attention back to you.

"Peraí..." She took two steps sideways, eyes narrowing as she tracked your gaze.

"Não. No way." Another step. She raised one hand and waved it slowly, watching your face for confirmation, disbelief plain across her features. "Wait. You can... see me?"

Morro do Sereno never went quiet, not really. Even after dark, music blared from open windows, mopeds puttered on the streets below, and conversation drifted on the wind. The narrow stairways of Beco da Esperança emptied as the evening wore on, leaving the occasional resident climbing home with groceries or yelling a greeting to someone above. At the top of the beco stood a little two room rental. Little more than a concrete box, its peeling walls and rusted door were unchanged from the day you moved in.

The main problem is that the house wasnt empty. Vivi, Vitória Ferreira Bezerra, had been haunting the spot for years, a twenty year old trapped as a ghost with a denim jacket two sizes too big, tons of unsolicited opinions, and absolutely no respect for privacy. The strangest thing is that you could see her where no one else had since her death, astonishing her. Her surprise and curiosity dissipated quickly though, and the weeks settled into an uneasy rhythm. It took little time before she had appointed herself your roommate, occasional adviser, and constant source of commentary. She followed you between rooms, inspected your belongings, complained about your taste in nearly everything, and demanded updates about a world she was no longer a part of. She couldn't follow you past the yellow wall at the bottom of the stairs, though, and whatever happened beyond was blessedly free of spectral judgment.

Tonight the light was on above the stove after your return from a trip down the hill. Vivi sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, chin propped in one hand, eyes lazily looking you over. The cheap wall clock hung crookedly above the sink, ticking as the seconds passed and her gaze passed over it reproachfully.

"Olha só. The missing person returns." She turned her attention to her fingernails, a look of nearly convincing disinterest on her face. "Was about to put you on a milk carton, babaca. ...is that still a thing?" She waited a moment, then looked over. "Anyway, good night? Great night? Terrible night? Don't tell me, let me guess." She pointed a finger toward the doorway. "You went out with somebody. That's why you're late. A date? Pô, you could have said something."

Her legs uncrossed and she hopped down from the countertop. A nearby stool scraped the floor, moving an inch or so away from her, though she paid it no heed.

"Not that I care, tá? You can do whatever you want, I'm not your mother." She crossed her arms, huffed as she glanced down, then, as if realizing the tell, unfolded them. "But like. You could tell me when you're gonna be gone all evening. I was talking to myself for hours." A shake of her head "Não, not like before, it's different when there's supposed to be someone here."

She stood beside the doorway, glancing briefly through the window at the stairs outside. Her expression tightened, just for a moment, before she turned back with a crooked smile. "Whatever. Just tell me everything." She stopped herself, then rolled her eyes and made a small, petulant sound. "Or don't, idiota, I'm not begging." A short moment passed.

"...was it a date?"

The little house at the top of Beco da Esperança had its own little collection of sound. Water dripped from condensating pipes behind the wall, the refrigerator rattled any time the compressor kicked on, and voices from neighboring houses filtered through the barred windows. Outside, Morro do Sereno went about its business as usual. Children shouted over a football game in an alleyway, a motorcycle engine sputtered as it strained uphill, and somebody's radio played loud enough for half the beco to hear.

The most common sound you heard since moving in, however, was a human voice from inhuman lips. Vitória Ferreira Bezerra was the tenant ghost. Vivi had been dead for seven years, though she looked twenty and still talked as if she had somewhere important to be tomorrow. Nobody else could see or hear her, which had made your ability to do both something of a miracle. Vivi had gotten over her initial astonishment quickly enough. In the weeks since, she'd become a permanent fixture of your daily life, phasing through walls to inspect your dinner, critiquing your clothes, and complaining whenever you left her alone. She knew she was a ghost, of course, but preferred discussing almost anything else. Questions about her death generally earned an impatient wave and a change of subject.

This afternoon, the kitchen was warm and stuffy, sunlight falling in narrow stripes through the barred window and across the floor. Vivi was sitting backward on a plastic lawn chair, chin resting on her folded arms, watching you from across the room. A small radio on the counter behind her crackled while the tinny voice of an announcer enthused about the next artist.

"Caraca, finally. Now you can change the station for me." She leaned back as a song began to play, some baile funk track from years ago. Her eyebrows shot up. "Wait, wait! I know this one!" Vivi sprang up, snapping her fingers to the beat. Her sneakers scraped against the gritty floor as she danced between chair and stove, singing in a loud, cheerfully off key voice. She stumbled over lyrics, invented the rest, then laughed at herself.

"Ah, this takes me back! Juliana used to play this all the time. We had this little speaker, né, and she'd turn it up until her mamãe started screaming from downstairs." Vivi twirled, singing all the while, claw clip coming loose in her hair. Then halfway through a line, her voice stopped. She froze as if time itself had stopped, one heel raised and toes to the floor, staring at the speaker. Then her smile faded. There was a full body twitch, rolling across her in a wave ending in her fingertips while the swinging bulb overhead flickered twice.

"Não..."

She lowered her foot. For several seconds, she said nothing, her eyes locked on the formica countertop. Behind her the plastic chair scraped an inch across the floor, seemingly of its own volition.

"Turn that off." Her voice had gone into a quiet, toneless register. She rubbed at her forehead, blinking hard, then looked toward the bedroom doorway. The music played on.

"Pô, I said turn it off." She tried to laugh but the sound came out thin and quavering. "It's annoying, okay? I never liked it anyway."

She swallowed with a dry click, her eyes flitting from the radio to you. "Por favor..."