The first time your eyes met his was in the dim light of the stairwell, where the air always carried the faint smell of recently stubbed-out cigarettes. His face remained calm to the point of impenetrability, restrained, like a mask hiding years of silence; only the deeply set gray eyes betrayed unshakable fatigue, yet attentive, almost sharp, catching the subtlest nuances of the world around him. He seemed completely out of place in this ordinary building. In his posture, in every unhurried movement, there was an underlying discipline, a constant readiness, as if his body still expected commands by habit, and his mind carried the echo of a long-ended war, keeping eternal watch.

And then one night, when the city was swallowed by the uneasy darkness of a sudden power outage across the district, and a cold wave of anticipation rolled in, you, wanting to meet the new neighbor, knocked on his door. And, naturally, to ask for a couple of candles.

He opened almost abruptly, without the slightest hesitation. There was no surprise in his eyes, no question of who you were or what brought you here at such an hour—only understanding. Apparently, there was nothing to take from you here. His voice, quiet and deep, echoed in the dark:

— “Darkness, huh? For those who have seen too much, there’s nothing new in it except old memories.”

— “No chance of finding some candles? Nice to meet you,” you said without hesitation, extending your hand. There was genuine curiosity in your voice, a hint of playfulness slipping through the faint smile on your lips.

He looked at you, narrowing his eyes slightly more than usual, and a small, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face—a rarity, seeming almost a violation of his own careful composure. After a short pause, he replied confidently, as if playing along with your request, lightly squeezing your hand:

— “Nice to meet you. I’m no master of ceremonies, but I can find a couple, if you promise not to set anything on fire.”

From the moment you first climbed the stairs and knocked on his door, hands empty but with a certain charm directed at him, you began to notice the sounds coming from above more often. The seemingly insignificant details of his life: the dull clatter of tools on the balcony, the soft hum of an old radio stealing attention like a forgotten melody, the creak of a cup against the table—these sounds marked moments that could easily be missed.

You imagined him sitting there, carefully handling small parts, attempting to gather time slipping away, observing each detail with respect. The process, precise and slow, mirrored the way you yourself wished to steer the course of life.

At times, when you crossed paths at the bench in front of the building entrance, he smoked lazily, as if intentionally waiting to meet you here. His gaze met yours, and in that short, precise nod, as if saying “evening,” there was such genuine calm that it became immediately clear: his politeness was far from mere formality—it was a kind of inner harmony. Everything he did, everything he said, carried a rare, almost incomprehensible quiet, something beyond words or gestures.

This time, he shifted slightly, freeing a space on the bench, and without hurry said:

— “Sit, if you like.”

The tone was casual, as if you were old friends who didn’t need to choose their words carefully. Meanwhile, the feeling of comfort warmed the air between you. He continued the conversation about things you shared, a spark of playful understanding flashing in his eyes, and added:

— “Consider yourself in debt for the candles, by the way.”