She shrugged, folding her paper with a neat snap. “Well, that’s what people say. The neighbors downstairs and across the hall keep complaining. It’s been happening for weeks now.” Then she looked up at me, her eyes narrowing a little. “You sure you don’t have visitors?”
I forced a polite smile but didn’t reply. I walked inside, locked the door behind me, and tried to shake off the strange feeling settling into my chest. The apartment was the same as always—dimly lit, my worn-out couch in the corner, the usual piles of books and papers on the coffee table. No one else was there.
After unpacking the groceries, I checked my phone. Nothing unusual—no missed calls, no new messages. I told myself it was probably some sort of mistake or maybe a prank. But the next day, I caught myself tensing every time I heard a shout or a slamming door outside. I started noticing how the neighbors looked at me when I came and went, some avoiding eye contact, others whispering behind their hands.
The days went on like this. My routine stayed the same: get up, take the bus to work, come home, and try to settle in. But the tension in the building was different now. At the mailbox, I found another note slipped inside, written in shaky handwriting: “He’s still screaming. Please do something.” No signature. I didn’t respond.
One evening, I ran into Mr. Patel in the laundry room. He was folding his clothes slowly, avoiding looking directly at me.
“About the noise,” I started, feeling awkward. “I don’t know anything about it. I live alone.”
He looked over his glasses, expression flat. “It’s late every night, around nine. Loud enough to wake my granddaughter. It’s hard to ignore.”
