At first, Joaquín tried to dismiss it as a coincidence. "Someone with odd habits," he told himself. But as a photographer, trained to notice the smallest details, he couldn’t turn away. There was something eerie about the figure, something unnatural in the way it remained completely motionless. He decided he needed evidence.

One evening, Joaquín set up his camera by his living room window. He adjusted the tripod and carefully aimed his lens at the red-lit window. As he began to take pictures, his camera malfunctioned. The focus refused to lock, the images blurred inexplicably. Frustrated, he adjusted the settings, replaced the memory card, even tested the camera by aiming at other parts of the street. It worked perfectly—until it was pointed back at the red window.

Baffled but not deterred, Joaquín resolved to keep a written log instead. Every night, he documented the figure’s appearance: the time, the position, the strange tilt of its head as though looking down into its own room. He also began to notice other oddities. The building across the street seemed completely abandoned. No lights ever flickered in any other window, and no signs of life appeared aside from the figure in the red glow.

Determined to learn more, Joaquín decided to talk to the locals. The following day, he stopped by a small convenience store at the corner of his block. It was the kind of place with buzzing fluorescent lights and aisles crammed with essentials. The cashier, a woman in her fifties with a gentle yet tired face, greeted him warmly. 

“Excuse me,” Joaquín said hesitantly. “Do you know anything about the building across from 316? The one with the red window?”

The cashier’s expression changed instantly. Her warm demeanor gave way to visible unease. She glanced over her shoulder before leaning in close. “You shouldn’t be asking about that building,” she said in a low voice.

“Why not?” Joaquín pressed, his curiosity growing.

“It’s not safe to get involved,” the woman replied, barely above a whisper. “Just... let it be. Some things are better left alone.”

Before Joaquín could ask anything more, the cashier handed him his change and waved him away. Her message, though vague, sent a chill down his spine.

That night, back in his apartment, Joaquín was more determined than ever. He turned off all the lights in his living room, sat by the window, and waited. When the clock struck 2:00 a.m., the red light blinked on, illuminating the silhouette of the figure. This time, Joaquín didn’t call out or move suddenly. He simply observed, his heart pounding in his chest.

But his patience didn’t last. Unable to contain himself, he whispered into the dark room, “Who are you? What do you want?” His voice trembled, audible only to him. The figure, as always, remained motionless.

Turning away from the window, Joaquín felt his frustration mounting. That’s when his camera, which had been left on the tripod, suddenly began clicking. The shutter snapped rapidly, one frame after another, as if someone invisible were using it. Joaquín froze, fear gripping him. Slowly, he approached the camera, the clicking still echoing in the silent room.

When it stopped, he hesitated before checking the images. Every photo showed the same thing: the red-lit window across the street. And in each one, the figure was no longer looking downward. It was staring straight at his camera.