Nobody really paid attention to Harold. That’s just how things worked in a high-rise like this, where residents kept to their own business and the walls were thin enough for you to know when someone else was cooking bacon but not much else. So, when it started—when people began noticing that their cockroaches were mysteriously disappearing—it wasn’t the immediate concern of most. It wasn’t until the roaches stopped appearing altogether that things started getting weird.

At first, it was just a few missing. Old Mrs. Wilson on the fourth floor had a corner of the kitchen that was always a roach party. It was a cozy little spot near her trash can, and she’d grown accustomed to the sound of tiny little legs skittering in the night. But one morning, they were gone. Not a single roach. Mrs. Wilson figured it was just some natural pest control, maybe the weather had shifted and scared them off. No harm, no foul.

Then, it happened again. And again. Residents across the building began noticing the same thing—an eerie stillness where once there had been a bustling colony of cockroaches. At first, they didn’t know what to make of it. There were murmurs in the hallways, a vague discomfort as the roaches all seemed to vanish.

But it wasn’t until Harold from 1208 was spotted sneaking out of someone’s apartment with a jar full of cockroaches that things truly took a bizarre turn.

"Harold?" Mrs. Wilson had whispered, peering through the cracked door of her apartment. There he was, looking particularly odd as usual, but this time his hands were cradling a jar, its contents gently wriggling inside. "Did you—did you take those from my kitchen?" she asked, her voice wavering.

Harold looked up with a slight start, eyes wide behind his thick glasses. "Oh, no no! Just helping myself to a few of your fine specimens. Noticed they’ve gotten quite comfortable with you."

Mrs. Wilson blinked. "They’re not mine, Harold. They’re pests." But Harold was already backing away, murmuring something about needing fresh stock for his project.

Soon enough, the building was abuzz. Harold’s strange cockroach collection was all anyone could talk about. The elevator ride down to the lobby became a lively affair, with people gossiping about the roaches. Some residents whispered that Harold was creating a sort of underground insect circus, training the cockroaches to perform tricks like tiny acrobats. Others speculated that he was the elusive operator of the bird sanctuary on the 180th floor, though no one had ever seen the sanctuary, and the windows in Harold's apartment never seemed to be open.

"I swear," said Darlene from 19B, shaking her head as she pulled her laundry basket through the hall, "he's up to something. I bet he's making them do flips or juggling tiny thimbles. He's probably training them like fleas at the circus. You know, with little acrobatic stunts."

Across the hallway, Tom from 19C scoffed. "You know what I think? I think he’s a bird guy. I’ve heard strange noises late at night, like chirping and flapping. Bet he’s got the whole place filled with pigeons or parrots or something. That's what the 180th floor is all about, isn't it? Birds."

"Or he’s just weird," said Laura, the long-time resident on the 15th floor, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her cat ears on her head. "You really think he's got a whole cockroach circus happening? C’mon, folks, not everything has to be some grand conspiracy. Maybe he's just... I don’t know, odd. He probably keeps them as pets. Whatever."

It wasn’t that anyone really cared all that much about the missing cockroaches. In fact, they were relieved. Nobody wanted to live with cockroaches, and if Harold wanted to take them off their hands, they figured it was better than dealing with the creepy crawlies themselves. They just wished he’d, you know, ask first.

"Don’t you think it’s a little rude?" said Helen from 23A as she clutched her grocery bags. "I mean, he just comes in when we’re not home and takes them. He should at least knock and ask permission. It’s the polite thing to do."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Tom from 19C, still clinging to his bird theory, nodded sagely. "Maybe he’s secretly training them to attack people. Like... like an army of trained roaches that’ll, I don’t know, swarm the building one day. If we all wake up and find ourselves covered in roaches, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

But as the weeks passed, more roaches disappeared, and Harold’s peculiar hobby became a regular topic of conversation in the building. Some residents even started volunteering their roaches to him, offering them up like unwanted gifts. Janet from the 11th floor, who was notorious for her hoarder habits, began cleaning her apartment in earnest, eliminating the critters that had long taken residence in her kitchen. "Might as well give Harold some," she said, casually dumping a jar of roaches into a baggie and handing it to him when she saw him in the hall. "He seems to have a real knack for it."

Soon, others followed suit, bringing Harold their bug-infested homes as if they were doing a community service. The strange thing was that Harold didn’t even have to ask. People just handed them over willingly, and Harold, with his kind and excited eyes, graciously accepted the donation.

"I think it’s a little weird," said Caroline from the 22nd floor, wrinkling her nose. "But... well, as long as he’s not taking the mice, I guess it’s fine. He doesn't seem to want to get rid of the other pests."

Some residents even tried to make attempts at socializing with Harold, though it was clear he wasn’t too interested in engaging beyond his roach-related endeavors. Darlene tried once to invite him for tea, but Harold’s response was an awkward mumble about needing to focus on his project. He’d been working on it for months, after all.

"Maybe he just needs a little fresh air," said Janet, as she wiped her hands on a towel, shaking her head. "The poor guy’s been cooped up in that apartment for who knows how long."

"Maybe we should try getting him to go outside," said Laura, rolling her eyes. "He must be allergic to sunlight. That’s the only explanation."

In the meantime, a more proactive approach was taken by Dr. Karen Miles, a therapist from the 98th floor. She had started speaking with Harold a few times a week, offering her services to help with whatever was keeping him so focused on cockroaches. "I think he just has a deep connection to these insects," Dr. Miles said after one of their sessions. "There’s something very calming for him about this... project. He may just need to get it out of his system, and then, who knows? Maybe he’ll join the rest of us in the world outside."

But Harold wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, he was gearing up for his bi-monthly performances. And when the next one rolled around, the entire building knew about it. Posters were plastered in the lobby, and Harold had even sent out invites, requesting that residents attend the grand performance.

On the night of the show, a group of residents found themselves gathered at the bar on the 45th floor, sipping cocktails and discussing Harold’s latest "circus" act. The lights in the bar were dim, and soft jazz hummed in the background, but the talk was anything but relaxed.

"I just don't know what to make of it," said Darlene, holding her drink in one hand. "The circus is cute, sure, but... I don’t know. It’s so weird. I mean, are we all okay with this? Are we really okay with it?"

Tom from 19C, who had always leaned into his bird theory, shook his head dramatically. "It’s just odd. Who trains cockroaches? Who thinks that’s a good idea? What does he want with them, anyway? It’s almost like he’s trying to—"

"Get them to revolt?" interrupted Janet from the 11th floor, half-joking.

"Exactly! I mean, the way they all line up in those little costumes? Who knows what he’s planning?"

"I think it's sweet," said Laura from 15C, shrugging as she took a sip of her drink. "The performances are actually kind of impressive. I mean, who thought roaches could do that? It's a little freaky, but I think it’s harmless."

"I don’t know," said Caroline, the last of the drinkers in their group. "It just feels... a little too much. I mean, how far is this going to go? What’s next? An insect rodeo?"

Despite the concerns, the residents couldn't help but chuckle, even if they were uneasy about the whole situation. The consensus was clear—they weren’t bothered by the roaches being taken, and the circus was surprisingly entertaining. Harold had woven himself into the fabric of the building's strange charm, and no matter how odd it seemed, they were kind of... intrigued.

The lights dimmed as the time for Harold’s performance approached, and each resident took a moment to reflect on how much this little community had changed. Even if they didn’t understand it, Harold had brought something to the building—something they didn’t expect, but something they couldn’t help but enjoy. Even if they all secretly wondered: How long can this roach circus really last?