My parking spot was repeatedly misappropriated by an unknown individual, who left nothing but his phone number on my windshield. When I phoned him, he never provided an explanation; instead, he simply relocated the car and disappeared into the night. Someone or something about it made me feel uneasy.

When I found out who he was, however, my entire world came crashing down around me. When I eventually turned off my computer and made my way out to the parking lot on that Tuesday evening, the fluorescent lights in the workplace had been causing intense discomfort to my eyes for about eleven hours. A persistent ache in my temples served as a warning that a migraine was right around the corner.

My neck felt as if it had been gripped in a vice for the entirety of the day. I wanted nothing more than to get in my car, drive back to my house, and collapse on my couch while taking in the aroma of whatever dinner my wife, Sophie, had prepared. After a long day at work, she would typically have something warm ready for me, and she enjoyed making a fuss over me.

If I had been lucky, she might have prepared her famous creamy baked lasagna, the kind that has three different kinds of cheese and had the ability to bring me back to life regardless of how disappointing my day had been. That evening, however, when I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex, the brief bubble of relief that I had been experiencing burst in an instant. In my parking spot, there was someone else.

Having said that, it might not have appeared to be a significant issue to anyone else. Guests could find lots of parking spots in our building, which were located a little further down the lot. But the fourteenth spot was mine.

The one that was immediately in front of our stairway, under the lamp that provided me with peace of mind when I arrived home late, was the one that I had argued with the landlord for weeks in order to take possession of. Convenience was not the only factor. It was something that I had struggled for, and I regarded it to be a component of the monthly rent that I paid.

A black Toyota Camry was now smugly occupying that place, and it was visible to everyone. At the same time as my hold on the steering wheel became more firm, I whispered, “Unbelievable.” After making one complete circuit, I parked my vehicle two rows down and muttered curses under my breath as I exited the vehicle. My frustration caused my keys to dig into my hand with a great deal of power.

I had every intention of rushing up to the vehicle and leaving a letter of my own, which would be significantly less courteous than anything I could possibly conceive. Before I could do so, however, I became aware of something white that was fluttering beneath the windshield wiper. This is a note.

I was able to free it and unfold the paper by pulling it. The handwriting was perfect, almost lovely in its precision:

My apologies for the inconvenience. You will return very shortly.

555-** is the number to call if I am in your way. As I stared at it, I was both confused and angry at the same time. This is done by who?