Every night, at 11:03 pm, the light flickered on in the window across the street. Always the soft yellow glow, the same shadow dancing behind the curtain. She used to think it was comforting- a quiet presence existing beside her.

When she moved into this apartment, she didn’t know anyone in this city. That window became an anchor. Sometimes, she’d make tea and sit by the window, watching the silhouette across the street. The person there moved like clockwork- pacing, reading, sitting perfectly still. Once, on a lonely night in July, she waved. And the shadow, after a pause, waved back, ever so silently.

They never spoke. Never met. But she began timing her evenings to that light, that soft, blooming glow at 11:03 pm.

Then one night, the light didn’t come on. Not at 11:03, not at 11:10. Not even as she stayed up till 12:00 am, waiting as her heart tightened with something that almost felt like grief.

A week later, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She crossed the street, found the building’s buzzer and pressed. No answer. The hallway inside smelled like dust and rainwater. Apartment 4B-the window opposite hers- was empty. Stripped bare. A thin layer of dust on the floor.

The landlord said nobody had lived there in 3 years.

That night, at 11:03, the light flicked on again.

Signing off…