For a long time, dragons used to get hunted by humans for the eternal fire burning in their hearts. Most died, while a few others evolved until they could pass for humans. They hid amongst us. And there, at the edge of their species, they survived. How one of those survivors found shelter in the flat contiguous to mine, I don’t know.

There are not many of them left. Dragons have a very long lifespan, and my dragon neighbour has seen many things. But since his family died about a century ago, he hasn’t seen another dragon. One evening, he told me stories about his past. He told me how his mother used to hide her long scaly tail – an unusual feature for modern dragons – under ample skirts, and how her intelligence and her energy won the whole community over. She was buried in the village cemetery, where she now rests alongside her husband, with their hearts cooling down under heavy black earth. None of his parents knew other dragons.

As for my neighbour, you wouldn’t guess he is not human. Of course he could be lying to me, but why would a dragon do such a thing? Sometimes, when I’m drifting at the surface of sleep, I get woken up by cracking noises on the other side of the wall. Living next to a dragon is a bit of a safety hazard. So I get up, unlock the door, and I scan the staircase, anxiously. But there is nothing, just night.

In these moments, I think about ringing at my neighbour’s door. I think about this dragon, full of civilisation, sleeping in a fireplace, living his bizarre dragon life in a world of humans. But I never ring. How lonely can you be, when you are the last of your species? Lonely people have strange fires burning in their hearts.

So I silently close the door, go back to bed, and I try to fall asleep, ashamed, like a dragon amongst humans, for having been awake at a time that belonged to others.