**The Note on the Fridge**
Margaret Hargrove woke at half past six, as she always did. It was still dark outside, but her body clock had never failed her in forty years. She pulled on her dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A scrap of paper, held by a ladybird magnet, was stuck to the fridge. Strange—it hadn’t been there last night.
Margaret took the note down and switched on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, shaky, as if written by an unsteady hand.
*”Margaret, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m your neighbor from across the hall—my name is Vera. I hate to ask, but I’ve no one else to turn to. Could I borrow a bit of sugar? I’ll return it, I promise. Flat 47. Many thanks, Vera Sullivan.”*
Margaret frowned. Flat 47? But that was where the Henderson family lived—a young couple with two children. She knew every tenant in the building by heart, having been the resident association chair for a decade.
The kettle whistled. She set the note aside and made breakfast, her mind uneasy. How had this Vera gotten into the flat? And why hadn’t she heard the Hendersons had moved out?
After eating, she dressed and stepped into the hallway. She paused outside Flat 47, listening. Silence. No children laughing, no television, just the faint hum of a radio.
She pressed the buzzer.
“Who is it?” came a raspy woman’s voice.
“It’s Margaret from Flat 48. Did you leave a note about sugar?”
The lock clicked, the door opening just a crack on the chain. A wrinkled face and one wary eye peered out.
“You’re Margaret?” the woman asked skeptically.
“I am. And you’re Vera?”
“Yes. Do come in.”
The chain slid off, and Margaret stepped inside—then froze. The flat was different. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just modest, old-fashioned furniture, neatly kept.
“Sit down, please,” Vera gestured to the sofa. “Would you like tea?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
Margaret studied her host. Vera looked about seventy, maybe older. Her grey hair was neatly pinned, her face lined with deep wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp and alert.
“Sorry to trouble you,” Vera said, fussing with the teapot. “Ran out of sugar, and my legs aren’t what they used to be.”
“Not at all. But—where are the Hendersons? Did they move out?”
Vera went still, the teacup in her hand.
“Hendersons? I don’t know any Hendersons. I’ve lived here for years.”
“How many years?”
“Oh, fifteen at least. Maybe more.”
Margaret felt a dizzy wave. Fifteen years? Impossible. She’d seen the Hendersons just last week—the mother pushing a pram, the older boy riding his scooter.
“Vera, how did you leave the note on my fridge? My door was locked.”
The old woman blinked in confusion.
“A note? What note?”
“The one you left this morning. About the sugar.”
“I never left any note.”
Margaret pulled the paper from her pocket. “This one. With your name.”
Vera took it, studying the scribbles with a frown.
“I didn’t write this,” she said finally.
“But it’s signed *Vera Sullivan*.”
“That’s my name, yes. But I didn’t write it. Maybe someone’s playing a joke?”
Margaret’s head spun. Vera seemed sincere—but who *had* written the note? And how had it gotten onto her fridge?
“Look,” she said, standing, “I’ll fetch you some sugar. Keep the note—maybe it’ll jog your memory.”
“You’re too kind.”
Back in her flat, Margaret’s questions multiplied. She filled a jar with sugar, then returned to Vera’s.
“Vera, may I ask—do you remember the Hendersons? A couple with two children. They lived here.”
Vera shook her head slowly.
“No, I don’t recall. Though… wait. I think someone *did* live here before me. But my memory’s not what it was.”
“Do you speak with any neighbors?”
“Hardly any. They’re all busy, working. Only old George from the ground floor pops by sometimes, helps with shopping.”
Margaret knew George. He’d lived here since the building went up—he’d have answers.
“Thank you for the sugar,” Vera said. “I’ll return it soon.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
Downstairs, George answered briskly—no doubt he’d been home all morning.
“Margaret! Come in, come in. Tea?”
“No, thank you. George, who lives in Flat 47 now?”
“Why, Vera, of course. Sweet woman, though poorly.”
“And the Hendersons?”
“What Hendersons?”
“That family with children. They lived there before.”
George gave her a long look.
“Margaret, are you feeling alright? There’ve never been any Hendersons here. Vera’s been in Flat 47 for twenty years, easy.”
“But I *saw* them! Just days ago!”
“Must’ve mixed them up with someone else. Age does play tricks on the mind.”
Her legs felt weak. Was George right? Had she imagined it all?
“You said Vera’s unwell?”
“Aye, poor dear. Memory’s gone. Forgets if she’s eaten, forgets names. I look in on her, fetch her groceries. No family left.”
“I see,” Margaret muttered.
Back in her flat, she stared at the fridge. The ladybird magnet remained.
All day, her thoughts tangled in fog. Was it early dementia? Was *she* losing her memory?
That evening, her son called.
“Mum, how are things? Anything new?”
“Tom, be honest—have I been acting strange?”
“Strange how?”
“Forgetful? Mixing things up?”
“No, Mum, you’re fine. Why?”
She told him about Vera and the note. Tom listened carefully.
“Maybe Vera wrote it during a bad spell? You said she forgets things.”
“But how’d she get into my flat?”
“Door might’ve been unlocked. Or she asked someone to slip it under.”
His explanation soothed her a little.
Next morning, she knocked on Vera’s door again—just to check in.
A middle-aged man in work clothes answered.
“Can I help?”
“I’m here for Vera. I’m a neighbor.”
“Ah. Come in. She’s not well today.”
Margaret stepped inside. Vera lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her face pale, her eyes unfocused.
“Vera, how are you?”
The old woman turned weakly.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Margaret, from next door. I visited yesterday.”
“Don’t remember,” Vera murmured.
The man approached.
“I’m her nephew,” he said. “Came from up north when I heard she’d taken a turn. Taking her back with me tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just old age. Memory’s gone. Can’t live alone anymore.”
Margaret glanced at Vera—breathing shallowly, eyes closed.
“Can I help with anything?”
“We’ll manage. Leaving tomorrow.”
Margaret said goodbye, her chest heavy. Poor Vera, all alone, and now this.
That evening, she knocked again. No answer. She pressed her ear to the door—nothing.
Downstairs, George confirmed it.
“She’s gone, lass. Nephew took her this morning.”
“But last night, he said they’d leave *tomorrow*.”
“Plans change.”
Margaret returned home, unsettled. Something wasn’t right.
Next morning, another note waited on the fridge.
*”Margaret, please forgive the intrusion. It’s Vera, from Flat 47. I need your help. Can you come? It’s urgent. Vera.”*
Her hands trembled. Vera was *gone*.
She rushed to Flat 47. From inside came faint sounds. No one answered the door.
“George!” she called downstairs. “There’s someone in Flat 47!”
“Can’t be. It’s empty.”
“But I *heard* them!”
“Margaret, maybe you ought to see a doctor.”
Back in her kitchen, she stared at the note. *Who* was writing these? And how were they getting in?
Her son called that evening.
“Mum, how are you? Still worrying about that neighbor?”
“Tom, do you remember the Hendersons? From our building?”
“What Hendersons?”
“The family with two kids. Lived in Flat 47.”
“Mum, I barely know your neighbors.”
“But you *saw* them! The boy always rode his bike outside!”
“Don’t remember, sorry. What’s this about?”
She dropped the subject, not wanting to worry him.
That night, she woke to a noise. Silence followed. In the kitchenShe stared at the fridge—no note this time—and realized, with quiet resolve, that kindness mattered more than answers, whether given or received.
