A stranger kept parking in my place and left messages with his number on the windshield. The night I phoned, he relocated his vehicle and left without explanation. It felt weird. He changed my world when I discovered him.

I burnt my eyes after a ten-hour shift on Tuesday night from workplace lights. My shoulders and head hurt, and I wanted to relax on the sofa with my wife, Sofía. Maybe she cooked her salsa-topped tamales, which always cheered me up.

Every night, I come home about 6:30. Our apartment complex has one parking place per unit—#27 in front of our building. I battled for the slot.

So when I drove up and saw a black Mercedes parked like it belonged, I was outraged.

“Seriously?” I grumbled as my keys sank into my hand.

I raced over to confront the driver, but a white paper fluttering beneath the windshield wiper grabbed my sight in the evening air.

It unfolded. Nice handwriting: Excuse me for stealing your position! Back shortly. Call 555-**** if I’m in your way.”

I looked at the number, perplexed. Who replaces someone and leaves their number?

Dialed before stopping. One ring. Two. He replied.

“Hello?”

“You filled my spot. Number 27.”

I apologize. I’ll relocate it.”

The end. No explanation, no justification.

A person exited my building minutes later as I observed from across the lot. Despite fading light, baseball hat low, hoodie zipped, sunglasses on.

He got into the Mercedes and drove away without looking at me.

Despite feeling uncomfortable, I parked my vehicle in #27 and let it go.

Sofía, you won’t believe this! Over supper, I twirled rice on my fork.

She raised her brown eyes in curiosity. What happened?

Someone stole my parking place! His number was written down. He relocated after I phoned. No explanation. Odd, right?

“That’s kind of polite, don’t you think?” she smiled. “At least he offered a solution.”

“Polite? He snatched my position!”

However, he relocated when asked. He may be forgetful.”

“Maybe,” I answered, feeling odd.

It happened repeatedly. Same Mercedes, position, note—always crisp handwriting and number. Always after my longest workdays, twice or three times a week.

Every time I phoned, the mysterious guy arrived within minutes. Same hat, hoodie, sunglasses. He nodded, drove off, and vanished.

I told Sofía, “This is getting ridiculous,” as I paced our living room one evening. His actions seem intentional.

Book in hand, she cuddled up. “Maybe he’s teasing you, Diego.”

I muttered, “It’s driving me crazy,” raking my fingers through my hair. “I’m losing it.”

Relax—it’s parking. When you call, he moves? Why the fuss?

“It’s my spot, Sofía. I deserved it. I fought Sánchez for it.”

You overthink it. He may be awful at parking.”

Saturday morning was gloomy and gray. Sofia planned to have breakfast with her friend Carla.

“We might hang out after,” she added happily. Girls’ day!

“Have fun,” I kissed her cheek. “I’ll be out most of the day for that Franklin client meeting.”

“Text me later?” she asked.

“Sure.”

My boss phoned 20 minutes after she departed. Meeting canceled. “Enjoy your day off, Diego!”

I went to the grocery shop to get snacks and Sofía’s favorite churros for a relaxing Saturday.

There were automobiles everywhere in the parking lot. Just before I gave up, I observed the black Mercedes parked crooked at the shop door.

Shaking hands, I examined the license plate. It was him. Man of mystery. Here.

“What are the odds?” A cold settled in my gut as I murmured. “Is he following me?”

I circled the lot, monitoring the Mercedes and checking the shop door every few minutes.

He appeared. Now tall, same hat and sweater, no sunglasses. His face was seen. He had company.

“Sofía?” Oh, I gasped.

His words made my wife giggle as she walked alongside him. I hadn’t seen her gleam in months, with loose hair and a naked face. Hands were held.

“No. This can’t be,” I said, hoping it was a mistake.

As usual, they strolled to the Mercedes. Sofía got into the passenger seat as he held the door.

Following them, I sought an explanation. Maybe they were pals. Maybe it was a hoax.

But they drove to our apartments. Straight to #27.

I watched my rearview mirror while parking along the street. As usual, he put a letter beneath the wiper. After walking hand in hand to our building, they vanished.

In my automobile, my hands shook so much I couldn’t handle the wheel. The components fit. The letter was for me, not him. Signal.

He knew I was home when I phoned. He left. Sofía would make excuses, such as bathing or talking on the phone.

They used me as an alarm.

I didn’t ascend. I couldn’t face them yet. The image of Sofía holding his hand and their comfortable laughing lingered in my thoughts. Instead, I drove for an hour, the jasmine-scented wind not calming my chest storm. I needed a strategy, not a fight.

I pretended nothing had changed for many days. Sofía looked anxious, but I continued my routine: work, supper, and light chat. Meanwhile, I planned.

I knew Sofía and Juan used their parking note method to avoid suspicion. I used that against them. I reported “frequent unauthorized parking” in space #27 to the apartment complex’s office as a concerned resident. I gave Juan’s license plate number, noting it disturbed people. The officials warned that one more infraction would result in a vehicle tow.

I hosted a “surprise dinner” for Sofía’s family and mutual acquaintances, including Carla, at our flat on Saturday. To get Sofía to go, I lied about celebrating her recent promotion. I worked with Carla, who was startled by the affair and wanted to assist.

So I left work early that night, knowing Juan would certainly steal #27 again. The Mercedes appeared with the message beneath the wiper. I contacted the housing office from a burner phone to report the “unauthorized vehicle.” A tow vehicle came within an hour, removing the Mercedes while Sofía and Juan were oblivious inside our flat.

I was the ideal host, offering tamales and beverages to visitors. Uneasy, Sofía checked her phone, wondering why Juan hadn’t texted her about my coming. Carla talking loudly about the “promotion.” distracted her.

I lifted a glass for everyone. “To Sofía,” I added, beaming. “For teaching me the value of trust—and the cost of breaking it.”

The room quieted. The face of Sofía paled. I showed a snapshot of Sofía and Juan smiling by the Mercedes on my phone, taken at the grocery store.

I added, “Sofía’s been parking in someone else’s spot,” quietly. “And not just mine. Her pal Juan’s automobile was towed from #27. They may be using it to conceal something from us.”

Gasps filled the room. Sofía stutters, “Diego, this isn’t—”

“Save it,” I replied steadily. I’ve shifted my stuff. The lease is now in your name, Sofía. Good luck telling your family.”

She faced her parents, siblings, and Carla in shock when I left. After losing his automobile, Juan sneaked out the back, but it was too late. Sofía received several messages from friends after hearing the tale over social media by morning.

I moved into my new studio across town with my own parking place. No games, no notes. The quiet was sometimes heavy yet honest. Honesty was liberating after all.

Freedom isn’t always winning. Sometimes it’s simply breathing again after reclaiming your space. It was plenty for me.