There’s a man who sings in the night. I do not know who he is. He lives somewhere on the same street as me, but I am not sure where. His singing is soulful, melancholy. It starts every night at two o’clock, and continues for an hour, sometimes more. At first, it woke me up. But now I’ve been here a while, I’ve become used to it. Often, I sleep through the singing. Nevertheless, the man’s voice infiltrates my dreams, lends them a sweet, sad lilt.

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Nobody complains. Nobody hollers, “Shut up! We’re trying to sleep!” Nobody joins in, making a duet or a chorus. Even the local dogs are used to him. They don’t bark or whine. It’s as if they, too, are listening, as if the music soothes them as well.

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When the rubbish truck comes down the street, I scan the faces of my neighbours, standing with their bags of household waste. Some of them nod to me in acknowledgement. They are used to me now, this strange foreigner who moved into number eighty-nine, and who keeps himself to himself. I pay particular attention to the faces of the men. They all look so very ordinary. I try to work out which one of them is the man who sings so sweetly in the night. And why. But there are no clues, no signs.

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Later, I will move away, to another town. When I do, it will not be the singing that wakes me at two o’clock in the morning, but its absence. My dreams will become less sweet. In this new town, the dogs in the night will be restless. Unsettled, they will wake me with their barking.