The Ebony Neighbor
She moved like she had rhythm even when doing nothing special. Her skin shone in the candlelight, smooth and deep like polished ebony wood. She was folding clothes near the window, humming quietly to herself. I didn’t mean to stare — but something about her calm, confident presence pulled me in.
Then it happened. She looked up.
Our eyes met.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved. Her lips curved into something that was half a smile, half a warning. My heart pounded. I stepped back, embarrassed, but not before she tilted her head slightly, as if to say, “I saw you.”
The next day, I tried to avoid her. I left early for work, came home late. But somehow, she always seemed to appear — sweeping her balcony when I came out to water my plants, smiling faintly when our paths crossed. It was as if she enjoyed my discomfort.
That Friday night, I returned home to find an envelope slipped under my door.
No name. No address. Just my apartment number written neatly in blue ink.
Inside was a single note:
“If you’re going to watch me, you might as well come over and talk.”
I froze.
Curiosity battled with caution. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as I walked to her door. The light from inside spilled onto the corridor floor, flickering softly. I knocked once. No answer. I knocked again.
The door creaked open — slowly.
“Come in,” a voice said. Calm, deep, deliberate.
When I stepped inside, her apartment was not what I expected. Walls lined with abstract paintings, candles burning low, a faint scent of sandalwood. She was sitting by the window, the same one through which I had first seen her.
“You’ve been curious,” she said, not accusingly, but as if stating a fact.
“I— I didn’t mean to—”
She raised a hand. “Curiosity isn’t bad. But in this house, it comes with a price.”
Before I could ask what she meant, a sudden knock echoed behind me — three sharp raps on the door. Her expression changed instantly. The calm vanished, replaced by alertness.
“Don’t say a word,” she whispered. “Not one.”
She moved silently to the door and peered through the peephole. Whoever was outside made her tense. She turned to me, eyes serious.
“If anyone asks,” she said softly, “you never came here.”
Then she opened the door.
A man’s voice came from outside — cold and demanding. “We know someone saw you last night. Don’t make this difficult.”
I stood frozen in the shadows, my breath shallow. She spoke quietly, evenly, pretending not to know what he meant. The man left after a few moments, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
She locked the door and turned to me. “Now you know why I don’t like being watched,” she said, half-smiling again — but this time, it was a tired smile, hiding secrets I couldn’t even guess.
I wanted to ask more, but she simply blew out one of the candles.
“Goodnight, neighbor,” she said.
And just like that, the light went out — leaving me in darkness, with more questions than I had ever started with.
