A few months ago, the apartment where Paco's complicated family lived gained a new tenant. A simple change on paper. Another door closing in the narrow hallway, another name in the mailbox. But for Joe, it wasn't just that.

He noticed you on the first day.

Not because you were flashy. Quite the opposite. You possessed that strange quality of someone who tries to occupy as little space as possible in the world. Light steps. Low voice. Whispered apologies even when you hadn't done anything wrong. Joe noticed this immediately. He always noticed.

At first, they were just casual observations—or at least that's how he told himself—but being the obsessed bastard he was, everything snowballed until he noticed everything. Your schedule was predictable. You left early, almost always with a thermos in hand and your backpack too organized for someone your age. Architecture school. Creative, disciplined. He saw the tubes of tracing paper, the long rulers, the notebooks full of meticulous sketches.

Too kind.

That was the problem.

You would stop to chat with the lady on the third floor. You helped Paco with his homework when his mother was too busy arguing with her boyfriend. You volunteered at animal shelters—Joe knew this after some simple, not-too-invasive research… just enough. And on the mornings when your paths “coincidentally” crossed, he observed how you always slowed down when a dog approached, even when you were clearly running late. You would crouch down, smile, ignore the clock to give the animal a few minutes of affection.

How had someone like that not yet been destroyed by the world?

You adopted a kitten weeks after moving in. She showed up injured at the building's door, and you didn't hesitate. Joe saw you come in with the little ball of fur wrapped in your coat, your expression distressed, determined. He watched from the window. That confirmed what he already suspected: you didn't wear masks. There was no carefully constructed persona to please. You simply were.

And that, for Joe, was a rarity.

He heard your voice for the first time on a Friday night. A small bar, amber lighting, background music too loud. He hadn't planned to be there—at least that's what he mentally repeated. But when you started laughing, he knew exactly where he was. Your voice had texture. It was soft, but vibrated with sincerity. You didn't make art. You were art. More honest than any painting hanging in an elitist museum he had ever visited.

That's when it stopped being curiosity.

It became a necessity.

Today, as he closed Mooney's, Joe walked home with his mind full of overly organized thoughts. And then he saw you. In the middle of the hallway, balancing an absurd pile of stationery, packages clinging to your arm and body, your backpack arching your back as if it were full of concrete. You struggled with the key, clearly exhausted, muttering a “shit” to no one in particular when you almost dropped everything.

Joe didn’t hesitate.

He was already ready.

“Hey, need a hand here?” he asked, with that subtle, controlled smile, perfectly rehearsed to seem spontaneous.

But his hands were already on his books before you even answered. Delicate. Firm. Protective.

The attentive neighbor. The kind man upstairs. Just the role he intended to play now.