The Fourth-floor Window

 Camila Regalado Franco
Departamento de Biología
Facultad de Ciencias Naturales, UPR RP

Recibido: 13/03/2026; Revisado: 13/05/2026; Aceptado: 14/05/2026

Night always seemed to arrive first at the windows. Before the street noise began to fade and before the last cars disappeared from the avenue, the lights in the building across the street would start turning on one by one. From his chair beside the window of his apartment, he watched that moment with a kind of ritual patience. Each rectangle of light that appeared on the façade felt like the beginning of a small domestic scene; as though behind every window a different play was unfolding, one that only he had the privilege of witnessing. 

Over time, that habit had become his most constant form of entertainment. At first, he watched out of simple curiosity; however, he soon began to recognize patterns, gestures, and routines that repeated themselves night after night. In that way, the building ceased to be a simple structure of brick and glass and instead became a collection of quiet stories unfolding before him. 

For example, on the third floor to the left lived a couple who seemed to argue frequently. Although he could not hear a single word from his window, the movements of their bodies were eloquent enough. Sometimes one of them would raise their hands in a gesture of frustration while the other remained still for several long seconds, as if carefully weighing each response. On occasion, the argument ended with a door slamming shut; at other times, it simply dissolved into an uncomfortable silence that seemed to fill the entire room. 

A little farther to the right, two windows away, lived a man who ate dinner every night in front of the television. His routine was so consistent that watching it had become strangely comforting. First, he placed his plate on the low table in the living room, then he turned on the television, and finally he sat down with a tired expression, as though eating dinner was simply the final task of an excessively long day. The blue glow of the screen illuminated his face with a distant look, and sometimes he appeared to fall asleep with the remote control still in his hand. 

On the upper floor, however, lived a young woman who moved through her kitchen with an entirely different energy. Often, she turned on some music and danced while preparing dinner. Her movements were neither elegant nor particularly coordinated, yet they carried a kind of spontaneous joy. At times, she would spin around while holding a wooden spoon and disappear briefly from the window, only to return moments later with a smile that seemed directed at no one in particular.  

Nevertheless, the window that caught his attention the most belonged to the second floor, where a young girl lived. He often saw her approach the glass and press her forehead against the window while she looked out toward the street with a thoughtful expression that seemed far too serious for someone her age. Occasionally, she would raise her hand and wave outward, as if she knew someone might be watching from a distance. 

He never waved back. He preferred to remain invisible. 

In fact, that invisibility had become an essential part of his nightly routine. Every evening, he sat in the same chair, slightly set back from the glass, so that from the outside his apartment appeared barely inhabited. From that position, he could observe without being observed, which gave him a strange sense of anonymity and control at once. 

Over the months, he had also learned everyone's habits in the building. He knew roughly when the man with the television would change channels and when he would finally fall asleep on the couch. He knew the couple on the third floor tended to argue more intensely on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Likewise, he had noticed that the woman who danced in the kitchen usually turned off the lights close to midnight, just after washing the dishes. 

In a way, those distant lives had become a kind of silent company. Although he had never spoken to any of them, he felt that he understood their small daily routines better than many neighbors who actually lived in the same building. 

That night, however, something felt slightly different. 

As his gaze moved across the windows, he noticed that one of them remained completely dark. It was the window on the fourth floor, right in the center of the façade. The sight made him frown slightly, because he clearly remembered that the room was usually illuminated at that hour. 

An older man lived there. 

For weeks, he had watched that man walk slowly around his apartment before going to bed. His pace was slow, almost ceremonial, and he often paused by the window for several long minutes, as though contemplating the city or waiting for something that never quite arrived. 

Yet that night there was no light. 

No movement. 

No shadow. 

At first, he assumed the man had simply gone to bed earlier than usual. However, as the minutes passed, the darkness of that window began to feel unsettling. It was too complete an absence within the regular patterns he had grown accustomed to recognizing in the building. 

Meanwhile, the other windows continued displaying their small nightly scenes. The couple on the third floor was no longer arguing; now they moved quietly around their kitchen. The man with the television appeared to be searching for something between the couch cushions. On the upper floor, the young woman continued dancing while the warm kitchen light illuminated her movements. 

But the window on the fourth floor remained dark. 

Eventually, he decided he was thinking too much about something insignificant. Not every night needed to offer an interesting spectacle, and with that thought, he slowly rose from his chair and walked toward the light switch. The room was silent, filled with the deep stillness that often settles over the city as it begins to fall asleep. 

When he turned off the light, the reflection that had covered the glass disappeared, and only then could he see the façade of the building clearly. All the windows were still lit. The couple on the third floor continued moving quietly around their kitchen; the man with the television leaned forward as if searching for the remote, and on the upper floor, the young woman gathered something from the counter while the music continued playing. 

Yet one window remained completely dark: the one on the fourth floor, the same one that had stayed dark all night, the same one that no one had seen turn on. 

And in that moment, he realized something he had never considered before. 

His apartment was not across from the building. 

It was inside it. 

On the fourth floor, just behind that very window, the one where the old man used to walk slowly around the room before going to bed. 

The same man who now remained motionless in the chair beside the glass, watching the building just as he did every night, unaware that from the second floor, the little girl was still looking upward with quiet curiosity. 

Because the window on the fourth floor had been dark for three nights. 

Since the night the man who lived there had stopped moving. 

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Posted on May 20, 2026 by CRiiAS.