The light in Apartment 404

Here’s another romantic story for you. Different setting. Different kind of love. Slow, steady, and a little unexpected.

When Mei Lin moved into Apartment 404, she promised herself she wouldn’t get attached to anything.

Not the view of the river squeezed between two concrete towers. Not the small balcony that caught the evening sun. Not the quiet hum of the elevator that sounded like it was thinking before it moved.

Temporary, she told herself. Just until she figured things out.

At twenty-nine, “figuring things out” had become her full-time occupation. She had left a stable marketing job to freelance. She had ended a long relationship that looked perfect on paper but felt hollow in real life. Now she lived alone in a building where no one knew her history.

On her first night, she noticed the light across the courtyard.

Apartment 305.

It turned on at exactly 7:10 p.m.

Every evening after that, the same thing happened. 7:10. A warm yellow glow behind thin curtains. Sometimes a shadow moved past the window. Sometimes music drifted faintly across the air.

Mei Lin didn’t mean to notice. But she did.

It became part of her routine. She made dinner. She sat on her balcony with her laptop. At 7:10, the light came on. Something about the consistency felt comforting.

One Thursday, the elevator got stuck.

Mei Lin was inside, holding grocery bags, when it shuddered and stopped between floors. The lights flickered once, then steadied.

She pressed the emergency button. Nothing happened.

“Great,” she muttered.

A voice answered from the darkness above. “You too?”

She froze.

“I’m in here,” the voice said, calm. “It stopped for me about thirty seconds before you.”

The emergency light flicked on, dim but enough. A man stood in the opposite corner. Early thirties, maybe. Glasses. A canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, startled and relieved at the same time. “I didn’t see you.”

“Hard to miss someone in an elevator,” he replied lightly.

They waited. Five minutes. Ten.

“I’m Mei Lin,” she said finally.

“Jian,” he said. “Apartment 305.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re the 7:10 light.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “I’ve never been called that before.”

“I didn’t mean it like—” she started, embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I turn it on when I get home from work. Habit.”

They sat on the floor eventually, grocery bags between them. Jian explained he worked as a high school physics teacher. Mei Lin admitted she freelanced and sometimes worked in pajamas until noon.

“You don’t seem like someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Jian said.

“That’s because you don’t see me at 2 a.m. panicking over invoices,” she replied.

He smiled at that. Not amused. Understanding.

After thirty minutes, the elevator jolted back to life. The doors opened to a small crowd of relieved neighbors.

Mei Lin and Jian stepped out together.

“See you at 7:10,” she said before she could stop herself.

He looked at her, a little surprised, a little pleased. “You will.”

The next evening, she stood on her balcony at 7:09.

She felt ridiculous.

At 7:10, the light flicked on.

A second later, his curtain shifted. A hand appeared against the fabric. Waving.

She laughed and waved back.

It became their thing.

Some evenings they just waved. Other nights, one of them would text. They had exchanged numbers under the practical excuse of “in case the elevator traps us again.”

Jian started coming upstairs sometimes with leftovers from his experiments in cooking. Mei Lin offered coffee in return. Their conversations stretched longer each time.

He told her about his students, how they pretended not to care but stayed after class to ask real questions. She told him about clients who wanted everything changed at the last minute and how she secretly enjoyed fixing impossible problems.

“You like solving things,” he said one night.

“I like making chaos look intentional,” she corrected.

He studied her for a moment. “You’re not as lost as you think.”

She looked away. Compliments still made her uneasy.

Winter softened into early spring. The river thawed. The evenings grew lighter.

One Saturday, the power went out in the entire building.

Mei Lin stood on her balcony, looking at the dark windows across from her.

No 7:10 light.

Her chest tightened more than she expected.

Her phone buzzed.

Jian: Power’s out. Want to come downstairs? I have candles.

She grabbed her sweater and went.

Apartment 305 looked different up close. Books stacked in careful piles. A small plant by the window. Candles flickering across the coffee table.

They sat on the floor again, like in the elevator weeks before.

“It’s quieter without electricity,” she said.

“It forces you to notice things,” he replied.

She watched the candlelight reflect in his glasses. “Like what?”

“Like how comfortable this feels,” he said simply.

Her breath caught.

She had dated men who said dramatic things. Big gestures. Loud promises. Jian’s words were small, but they settled deeper.

“I’m scared of staying anywhere too long,” she admitted. “Of depending on something. Or someone.”

He nodded. “I’m scared of not trying.”

Silence stretched between them, not awkward. Just honest.

The building lights flickered back on.

Neither of them moved.

After that night, 7:10 changed.

Sometimes she went downstairs before the light turned on. Sometimes he came up. The routine softened into something shared instead of observed.

One evening, months later, Mei Lin stood in her kitchen, watching the clock.

7:09.

But this time, she wasn’t on the balcony.

There was a knock at her door.

She opened it to find Jian standing there, no canvas tote, no excuse.

“I thought,” he said, a little nervous, “maybe the light doesn’t have to be across the courtyard anymore.”

Her heart pounded.

“You mean,” she said slowly, “you’d like to be the 7:10 light in here?”

He smiled. “If you’ll have me.”

She stepped aside.

Inside, the apartment felt less temporary. Less like a waiting room for the rest of her life.

At exactly 7:10, she reached over and turned on the lamp by the window.

This time, the warm yellow glow belonged to both of them.