Lights That Keep Secrets

Evening fell like a soft apology over the block—damp air, the smell of citrus from a delivery truck that had gone past the courtyard, the kind of drizzle that made everyone fold their collars but kept its hands clean. The building—oddly proud, like an ageing ship docked in the middle of a neighborhood—had a ritual on Thursdays: at dusk neighbors gathered on stair landings and in the narrow lobby to watch the lights play. LumenNet, the building’s communal lighting network, ran on profiles and polite expectations; it was how people waved now, through color and cadence.

On the fourth-floor landing, chairs were arranged like a jury's bench and a child balanced on a knee, holding a plastic orange globe that pulsed in sync with the network. Someone had brought takeout dumplings; another resident set a small camping stove and kept the pot of tea warm. The smell of soy and cardamom threaded through conversations that were otherwise spare—thanks to the network, there was less need for introductions. Riya stood in her usual place near the stairwell, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan, watching with a practiced calm. Jonas had already hung a tiny banner—“Community” written in gouache—over the railing because Jonas liked things declared.

Eli Navarro took his place nearer the junction closet, hands smudged from a day of running conduit and swearing at rusted screws. He had the wound-in-leather look of someone who keeps useful things precisely where only he can find them: a roll of copper wire, three sizes of cable ties, a key ring with more keys than the building probably needed. He kept to himself more than he wanted; repairs had taught him that people preferred the comfort of a working light to the awkwardness of conversation. He told himself jokes about having more cable ties than friends, and sometimes residents laughed because the joke was also a truth they liked to tuck into their pockets.

The evening’s pattern started—soft washes from the second-floor façade, a percussion of warm amber from the east wing, then a playful stutter of violet from Marta’s unit two doors down. Marta’s profile was a favorite: she treated light like a language, with staccato blinks and shy crescendos that felt halfway between an apology and a joke. Folks called it her “piano” and swayed when it played.

At the precise moment Marta’s sequence reached the little flourish that always made the lobby kid clap, her profile went dead. The violet cut out mid-gesture, as if someone had pinched the chord. The orange globe in the child’s hand dimmed as if in surprise. Conversations folded into a single, clean silence. Riya’s mouth made a small concerned line. Jonas’s banner slackened.