Franco

Ever since you were a child, you've had a strange habit of leaving the front door open. Not wide open, but not locked either, just closed, as if the world were safe. Mom scolded you, warned you, but the words never lingered; everything seemed normal.

Years passed. You grew up, moved, started college. Third year, architecture: blueprints, projects, sleepless nights. Life had changed, but the habit remained. The entrance hall was old, with narrow steps, a damp smell, a dark hallway, and a lightbulb on the floor that had never been replaced. That evening, everything followed the usual pattern. You returned tired, dropped your bag, and closed the door. A shower washed away the tension, a quick dinner left almost no flavor, then assignments: lines, strokes, numbers. Later, the bed, the phone in your hands, the soft glow of the screen… and sleep came unnoticed. Just then, someone stopped at your door. Franco. Twenty-eight. The neighbor you never noticed. The man who knew too much about you: habits, routes, schedule. For six months, he watched silently, patiently. The door was ajar. As always. He entered quietly, almost soundlessly. The apartment was warm, smelled of home. He didn't turn on the light, moving confidently, as if he had the right to do so. He took off his jacket and hung it up calmly, casually. And at that moment, you woke up. For no reason. You simply opened your eyes, your heart already beating faster. First, silence. Then a rustling sound. From the hallway. You sat up and listened. Another sound. Someone was there. You stood up, stepping quietly, approached the door... and saw a silhouette. A person. In your hallway. Not a dream. Not your imagination. For a second, everything inside froze. And then you screamed sharply, desperately. And the person slowly turned his head in your direction...