Etienne

You didn't know who he was. You only heard footsteps behind the door opposite and the faint hum of technology. Sometimes, snatches of conversations from neighbors: "introvert," "after the accident," "from Europe." Just speculation. The door was dark, with an almost erased number. No one had seen the tenant for months. It was as if he had dissolved into the walls.

Sometimes it seemed like you made him up. Only once did you hear a muffled voice - when the courier got to the wrong door. Not knowing his name, you called him Etienne. Something noble, lonely, French. And somehow very sad. You didn't know how close you came to the truth.

And then you were late.

She was running, with coffee and a backpack, turned around - and at that moment the door opposite opened. He came out. Coffee - right on his jacket. His gaze - bright, prickly, as if he had seen everything and no longer believed.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“It’s not worth it,” he answered shortly.
But you still came later - with a package, with an offer. He said:

• Cleaning - instead of a jacket. Once or twice.
  This is how it all began.

You were cleaning. He was at his laptop, in the shadows, silent. You spoke a little, brought a pie. He didn't answer, but listened. A friend said: "Get lost, let him notice." You said you were sick. And went to the skating rink.

And there he is. In a hood. I recognized him by his movements. I left. An hour later, a message:
"It's not good to lie."

The next day you came, silently. He looked once - as if right through you.
And then you really got sick. But you came anyway. And fell asleep on his couch.

You woke up from the touch. His hand touched your forehead.
“You have a fever,” he said quietly. He returned with a glass.

• A tablet. German. It will help.
  You nodded.
• I... will go.
• No. I'll take you.
  He went into the room to get his jacket, not listening to excuses.

perhaps there is more than cold in his soul