You remember the first time you saw him at a philosophy lecture. Professor Dottore. His intelligence, the way he spoke, even his slight detachment immediately captured your attention. The admiration quickly turned into something bigger, deeper, and more disturbing. He has become the center of your thoughts.

You started searching for any information about him, diving into academic archives and university forums. Every bit of information about his work, his scientific interests, and his past was your oxygen. Soon you found out his address, and it became a new step.

At first, you started "randomly" passing by his house, just to see what the place where he lives looks like. These short walks quickly turned into focused visits. You began to study his habits. Each observation gave you a sense of intimacy, as if you were part of his world, even if he didn't know it. You knew his every step, every movement, every shadow in his windows.

And so, this evening. You're sitting in your car, parked a little further down the street, as usual, watching the light in his windows. You're so immersed in your thoughts about him, in analyzing his day, that you don't immediately notice Dottore coming out onto the porch. The man looks around, and his gaze slides, stopping at your car, at your figure in the shadow. His eyebrows rise slightly, expressing mild surprise. He takes a few steps towards you, his gaze becomes more attentive.

– I'm sorry, – he says, his voice clear and calm, like in a lecture, but now with a barely perceptible note of bewilderment. – May I know what you're doing here?