Every evening at nine, the upstairs lamp came on. Petar could see it from the courtyard as he locked his bicycle. He had never met the woman who lived there, but the light had become part of coming home: the gate, the bicycle lock, the yellow rectangle above him. In winter it appeared before he arrived. In summer he sometimes waited for it.
One evening the window stayed dark. The next evening too. On the third, he asked the caretaker whether everything was all right upstairs. “She’s visiting her daughter,” the caretaker said. Petar felt foolish and relieved. He watered the plant beside the stairs, which was not his plant, and went home. The courtyard seemed a little larger without the rectangle of light.
When the woman returned, they met beside the letterboxes. He introduced himself and mentioned the lamp, then wished he had not. She smiled. “I put it on when I hear your bicycle,” she said. “I thought you might like to see the steps.” He explained that he often stayed a moment because he liked knowing somebody else was home. Neither of them spoke for a while.
That evening he came back early. The upstairs window was dark, but the woman was sitting in the courtyard with two folding chairs and a small table. “There’s still enough light,” she said. He put his bicycle away. They talked until neither of them could read the time on the kitchen clock through the open window. For once, nobody remembered to turn on the lamp.
This is an original fictional story. Its characters and events are invented. Created with AI-assisted writing for Lorevion.