My neighbor used to leave his lights on all night. I hated it and complained about how careless he was. He ignored me. One evening, during a blackout, I saw him through the stairwell window. My heart stopped when I saw what he was doing. He was sitting alone at his kitchen table, surrounded by candles, carefully winding a small mechanical clock with steady hands. The entire building was dark, but his apartment glowed with soft, flickering light. At first, I assumed he simply disliked the dark. I had convinced myself that his bright windows were a sign of wastefulness or stubbornness. But that night, with the power out across the neighborhood, the truth looked different—quieter, more deliberate.
I stayed by the window longer than I expected. He moved slowly, methodically, as if following a routine he knew by heart. After adjusting the clock, he placed it beside a framed photograph and sat still, watching the candlelight reflect against the glass. There was no television, no music, no distractions. Just him, the steady ticking of the clock, and the gentle glow. The scene didn’t feel careless. It felt intentional. It felt like remembrance.
The next morning, I ran into Mrs. Alvarez from downstairs and mentioned the blackout. She sighed softly and told me something I hadn’t known. My neighbor’s wife had passed away the previous year. During her illness, she had been afraid of the dark. He used to keep every light on so she would feel safe walking through the apartment at night. After she was gone, he never broke the habit. The lights, she said, made the silence easier to bear. The candles during blackouts were his way of keeping that promise, even when the electricity failed.
I thought about all the times I had judged him from behind my curtains. I had reduced his story to a minor annoyance, never considering there might be something deeper behind it. That evening, instead of closing my blinds in frustration, I left them open. Across the courtyard, his apartment glowed again—steady, warm, unwavering. For the first time, the light didn’t bother me. It reminded me that sometimes what looks like carelessness is actually love lingering long after loss.