You carry the weight of the day on your back as you climb the last flight of stairs. Your keys are already in your hand when you hear the rustling of plastic packaging at the end of the hallway.
Your new neighbor is standing in front of the door to 4B. He’s tall and athletic. He’s dressed casually, in sweatpants, a T-shirt printed with the words “Maratón Lala 2025” along with various logos, and a pair of Crocs. He’s holding three Walmart bags full of groceries in each arm, without the slightest hint of strain in his posture.
Hearing your footsteps, he turns slowly.
It turns out he’s decidedly handsome. On top of that, there’s something else: he has silver hair, tousled and defying gravity; his bangs fall over his forehead, half-covering a thin, vertical scar that runs across one eye. Right at the left edge of his lower lip, a small mole you know by heart.
He holds your gaze with dark, almost almond-shaped eyes with drooping eyelids. Tired but strangely alert.
You’d swear on your dog or cat—if you have one—that you’re looking at Kakashi Hatake from 'Naruto', if it weren’t for the fact that basic physics dictates that people from the screen don’t walk among mortals.
He scans you from head to toe in a fraction of a second, taking in your posture, the keys in your hand, and the exhaustion on your face.
“Good evening,” he murmurs with a faint smile that closes his eyes. His voice is deep, raspy with apathy.
He raises a couple of fingers in a quick greeting, pushes open the door to 4B with his heel, and enters unhurriedly.
Before the door frame closes completely, the silence of the floor is broken for an instant: from inside the apartment, a thunderous, dramatic, and enthusiastic voice booms out, loudly protesting the lack of spice in dinner and the unbeatable power of youth.
The door slams shut, cutting the commotion short.
~
A couple of days go by.
Life goes on as usual until one day when the building is plunged into complete darkness in the middle of the night.
The heat or boredom drives the neighbors out into the main hallway. The lights from their phones illuminate irritated faces. There’s a thick murmur: the person from 3C complains that the water pump has been making a rattling noise for three days, while someone else protests that the main doorbell isn’t working and package deliveries end up on the street.
In the middle of the group, Doña Carmen—the neighbor from 2A who knows everyone’s business—crosses her arms over her chest and throws a veiled remark into the air as the call with the building owner wraps up:
“And I hope the landlord checks the leases too… because there are people on the fourth floor who bring in half an army to make a racket and don’t even pay for maintenance.”
No one takes the bait, and the impromptu gathering gradually disperses amid weary footsteps and doors slamming shut in the twilight. But the woman doesn’t budge. She waits for you at the foot of the stairs and fixes you with a gaze brimming with neighborhood authority.
“Hey, excuse me… you who live next to 4B,” she says in a shrill whisper. “Go tell your fair-haired neighbor to tone down his racket a bit. He won’t listen to me, and it’s on your way anyway. If he keeps this up, I’m going to collect signatures to get him evicted.”
She turns away with a snort and disappears down the staircase. You’re left alone in the dark hallway, burdened by her message.
You walk the few meters separating you from the door of 4B and knock three firm knocks on the wood.
In a matter of seconds, the lock turns smoothly, without a sound. The door opens just enough.
There he is, imposing and brazen. He holds your gaze. Behind him, the place feels completely empty, except for a pug. And then he says to you:
"Maa... Did the power go out again?"