PART 1 — THE LIGHT I COULDN’T STAND
Every night, at exactly 6:30 p.m., my neighbor turned on every light in his apartment.
Not one.
Not two.
Every single one.
The kitchen light came on first.
Then the living room.
Then the hallway.
Then the small lamp beside the window.
And finally, a bright little lamp in the bedroom that faced directly toward my apartment.
By midnight, his entire place looked as if someone had forgotten to turn off the lights in an empty office building.
At first, I barely noticed.
Then I started noticing everything.
The light shining through my curtains.
The glow reflecting against my bedroom wall.
The strange brightness that remained outside even when the rest of our courtyard was completely dark.
It began to irritate me.
I lived in Apartment 3B.
He lived directly across the courtyard in 3D.
His name was Daniel.
I had known him for almost three years.
We weren’t friends.
We weren’t enemies either.
We were simply neighbors who occasionally nodded at each other near the mailbox.
He was probably in his late sixties. Quiet. Thin. Always wearing the same dark jacket whenever he went outside.
I had never seen him entertain guests.
Never heard loud music from his apartment.
Never seen a woman visit.
He seemed to live alone.
And every evening, he turned the lights on.
One night, I finally decided to say something.
I caught him downstairs carrying groceries.
“Daniel?”
He turned.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
I hesitated.
“Do you really need all those lights on every night?”
He looked at me for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“The lights in your apartment. All of them. They stay on until morning.”
He glanced toward the ceiling as if he could see his apartment through it.
“Oh.”
I expected an explanation.
Instead, he simply smiled.
“I suppose they do.”
“It must cost a fortune.”
He shrugged.
“Electricity isn’t free.”
“I know.”
He smiled again.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
And walked away.
I stood there, annoyed.
That was it?
No explanation?
No apology?
I convinced myself he was simply stubborn.
Over the next few weeks, I complained twice more.
The second time, I was less polite.
“Daniel, that bedroom lamp shines directly into my window.”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you turn it off?”
He looked at me.
For just a second, something changed in his expression.
Something tired.
Something almost painful.
Then it disappeared.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
I frowned.
“You can’t?”
“No.”
He walked inside.
And closed the door.
I remember standing there thinking:
What kind of answer is that?
I went back upstairs convinced that he was being ridiculous.
I didn’t know then that those three words—I can’t—had nothing to do with electricity.
