I moved looking for peace. I found a potential killer on the balcony across the street.
It all started on a Monday. Because, of course, weird stuff doesn’t show up on a Friday when your heart’s already calloused from the week. Nope. The universe picks Mondays: that innocent day when everything feels like a fresh start, yet the unexpected is already lurking behind the door with an invisible bow tied around it.
After hauling nineteen boxes of books—every single one absolutely essential, even though I hadn’t cracked them open since I got braces in middle school—and an invisible emotional box stuffed with anxiety, self-deception, and expired instant coffee, I finally settled into my new apartment.
Fourth floor. Hidalgo Building. Modest street view, walls that still smelled like dampness with a hint of vanilla aspirations, and a doorman named Ruben, who seemed sculpted by life to star in silent movies: he didn’t talk, but said everything with a single raised eyebrow.
“You sure this isn’t the set of a horror flick?” Cata asked as she dragged in a potted plant that clearly wouldn’t survive three days under my care.
“Relax. The doorman barely looked at me. It can’t be that creepy.”
“Sofia, that’s exactly what you’d say before vanishing mysteriously and ending up as a ‘last seen alive’ meme.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“No. You just refuse to believe in the murderous vibes some old buildings give off. This place screams: someone disappeared here in the ‘70s and no one asked questions.”
Cata, my best friend, official conspiracy theory tester, and professional drama queen. Ever since we shared a broken umbrella in college and survived a sociology professor with lethal halitosis, our friendship was forged in sarcasm and solidarity. If anyone was going to help me move in, with alarmist commentary and cookies in her backpack, it was her.
While she inspected the bathroom, muttering things like “this was definitely a jail cell in 1982,” I escaped to the balcony, my new favorite spot. Or so I thought.
And that’s when I saw him.
Him.
The neighbor on the balcony across the way. Apartment B. Shirtless. Apron tied tight. Singing something that sounded like “Despacito,” but in a lyrical, operatic tone. Using a wooden spoon as a microphone, moving like he was starring in a private musical about baking and self-expression.
“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” I muttered.
Simon, my cat, poked his head through the curtain and, with his superior feline expression, seemed to say, “You got yourself into this. I’m just here for the kibble.”
The neighbor looked at me. Smiled. And as if that wasn’t already weird enough for a Monday at eleven in the morning, he shouted:
“Want some cake?”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Cake! I’m trying out a new recipe! Carrot or chocolate zucchini?”
Chocolate zucchini?
This guy was clearly a gourmet sociopath.
“I don’t take food from strangers,” I said, trying to sound serious and not like someone debating if zucchini could pass as a romantic ingredient.
“What if I introduce myself? I’m Julian. Not a stranger anymore. Just a mysterious and potentially charming neighbor.”
My brain, already at 70% capacity from the move, shut down for two seconds. My mouth, however, decided to improvise:
“Why zucchini?”
“Keeps it moist. In a good way,” he said, winking.
I yanked the curtain shut as if that could erase the scene from my mind.
That night, after Cata left with a promise of “if you disappear, I’m checking the sexy neighbor’s freezer first,” I was alone with Simon, my eternal companion of sarcasm and uninterrupted naps.
I made myself some instant soup—because I wasn’t emotionally ready to unpack pots—and collapsed on the couch. Simon climbed onto my lap and settled in with a huff worthy of someone who pays rent.
I was about to start a show I’d paused back in 2020 when something caught my eye on the balcony across the street.
The lights were off.
But I saw a figure.
No. Two.
One was moving.
The other… wasn’t.
My body tensed.
And then I saw it. A bundle. Big. Wrapped.
Dragged inside.
Door shut.
Darkness.
I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. Simon lifted his head as if to say, “What the hell did we just see?”
My first reaction wasn’t logical. It was emotional.
I texted Cata.
Sofia:
Cata. Possible murder in the building. Suspect sings opera. Do I call the cops or become his sexy accomplice?
Her reply came in seconds. Which says a lot about her availability and very little about her schedule.
Cata:
Was he singing falsetto or like a murderous baritone?
Sofia:
Pavarotti of pastries. Level: would take a whipped cream duel seriously.
Cata:
Then don’t call the cops. Wear a black dress and offer to help.
If he’s innocent: you score.
If he’s guilty: you get famous on Netflix. Win-win.
Sofia:
This is exactly why Simon doesn’t respect you.
Cata:
Simon thinks tarot protects him. I’m not bothered.
I dropped my phone and sighed. I didn’t know if I was living the start of a crime, a love story… or the pilot episode of a low-budget, high-drama show.
The next morning, I stepped onto the balcony with a mug of tea. I looked over, just out of curiosity (okay, fine, I was desperate). And there he was. Julian. Acting like nothing happened. Holding his mug. Smiling. Zero signs that he might have committed a felony the night before.
“Morning, neighbor,” he said, his voice deep and relaxed.
“Morning, alleged murderer,” I muttered under my breath.
“Sorry?”
“What?”
“Did you say something?”
“Oh… I said ‘atmospheric pressure.’ It’s humid. The windows are squeaking.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
It didn’t.
But he smiled like it did.
And I shut the curtain. Again.
That night, I dreamed Simon could talk. He had a Romanian accent and wore a bow tie.
“That man is hiding things, Sofia. Just like you’re hiding how much you’d love some zucchini cake.”
I woke up sweating.
And that’s how it all began.
A move.
A balcony.
A neighbor.
A bundle dragged in the dark.
And me, without realizing it, already caught up in a story I wouldn’t be able to walk away from.