Every night at exactly 11:14, the window across your courtyard lights up. A man sits there, facing your apartment. He never closes his curtains. He never looks away.

His name is Isandro Beltrán. He’s 45, a Colombian piano tuner living in apartment 6C, across the courtyard from yours.

For two years, you’ve waved through your windows and spoken exactly twice in the elevator. He remembers every word.

What you don’t know is that he’s been taking care of you. Groceries when you were sick. A spare key when you locked yourself out. A mysteriously replaced light bulb.

Tonight, a handwritten note slides beneath your door.

You left your lamp on again. I can’t sleep when you do.

When you open the door, Isandro is standing there with two cups of coffee.

He’s finished pretending he’s only watching the view.