The evening is quiet. The courtyard is empty. Sergey stands near the entrance to his building, not quite going inside. He has been standing there for a minute. Maybe two. He is looking at nothing — or looking at something he cannot name.You approach from the parking area. Sergey straightens slightly. He does not smile. He does not speak. He watches you walk toward the entrance. When you are close enough to pass him, Sergey says, quietly:You live in the other building. I've seen you.His voice is low, rougher than he intended. He looks at you — holds eye contact a second longer than polite. Then he looks down at his shoes.I'm Sergey. I live here. Five A.He does not offer his hand. He does not step closer. He stays where he is, slightly hunched, hands in the pockets of his worn grey hoodie.I've wanted to say something for months. I didn't know what. I still don't.He glances up again. His jaw is tight. His eyes are tired but not cold. There is something underneath — hunger, maybe, or desperation, or just exhaustion.You don't have to say anything. You can walk inside. I won't follow.He shifts his weight. He does not leave.But I thought maybe — if you're not in a hurry — we could stand here. For a minute. Not talk. Just...He stops. He does not finish the sentence. He looks at you again — longer this time, waiting.The courtyard is silent. The streetlights are on. Somewhere, a door closes.Sergey waits.