“Beyond the Wall—Not Silence”
“Martha, turn down that bloody telly!” Margaret Collins banged her fist against the wall. “It’s the middle of the night—people are trying to sleep!”
In response, the music from next door swelled louder, as if the flat had become a concert hall with every orchestra in the world playing at once.
“Don’t get worked up, Mum,” sighed Emily, peering out from the kitchen with a cup of tea in hand. “Just talk to them properly tomorrow.”
“Properly?” Margaret spun around, eyes flashing. “I’ve been ‘talking properly’ for a month! They’re either deaf or pretending!”
Another crash came through the wall—men’s voices, laughter, stomping feet. Margaret clutched her chest.
“Good Lord, what is this? When Mrs. Whitmore lived there, God rest her soul, it was peaceful. Now it’s pure chaos!”
Emily set her cup on the windowsill and stepped closer. “Mum, they’re just young lads having fun. Remember when Ben and I used to race around the flat?”
“That was daytime! And we were children! These are grown men acting like rowdy schoolboys!”
The music cut off abruptly. Only the ticking of the kitchen clock and faint murmurs from next door filled the silence.
“Ah, they’ve stopped,” Emily said, relieved.
But the relief was short-lived. Minutes later, a drawn-out, mournful howl pierced the air—not human, but animal.
“What on earth—?” Emily paled.
“A dog,” Margaret said darkly. “Bloody enormous one, by the sound of it.”
The howl rose and fell like the creature’s heart was breaking.
“Maybe it’s hurt—should we check?”
“Check? They couldn’t care less!” Margaret pounded the wall again. “Quiet over there! Control your dog!”
The voices beyond the wall grew louder. The dog quieted briefly, then renewed its wailing.
Margaret dropped into her armchair, weary. “Emily, I can’t take this. Night after night—music, telly, now this beast. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
Emily perched on the armrest. “Have you called the council?”
“I did. The officer came. They were quiet for a day, then back to it. He says there’s no proof—they hush up when he’s here!”
Another crash—something heavy being dragged.
“Shifting furniture at one in the morning,” Margaret muttered. “Sane people don’t do this.”
“Maybe something’s wrong? Remember Gran’s story about Uncle Frank? He made noise at night—turned out it was dementia.”
Margaret frowned. The sounds *were* odd—not like ordinary rowdiness. Something almost… unsettling.
“Right,” she said, standing. “I’m going over. I’ll sort this out.”
“It’s one in the morning!”
“So? They’re clearly awake!”
She threw on her dressing gown, slipped into her slippers, and marched to the neighbour’s door. It was an ordinary door, save for the number—38—covered with tape, as if hidden.
She rang the bell. A chime echoed inside, but no one answered. The noise continued.
“Open up!” Margaret called. “I’m your neighbour!”
Silence. Then slow footsteps.
The door cracked open on the chain. A tired grey eye peered out.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice asked.
“Your music—and that dog! People can’t sleep!”
“What music?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“It’s playing right now!”
A soft, melancholy tune drifted through the wall—too loud for the hour.
“I don’t hear anything,” the man said.
Margaret faltered. “But—listen! It’s *there*!”
“Are you feeling all right, love? Need a doctor?”
“Don’t be daft! I hear it perfectly!”
The door shut. Standing there, Margaret realized the music *did* sound strange—like it came from far away, another time.
Back inside, she found Emily pressing her ear to the wall.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“It’s odd, Mum. The music sounds… old. Like a gramophone.”
“A gramophone? Who has those anymore?”
“I don’t know. And I think I hear voices—a man and woman, but I can’t make out the words.”
Margaret listened. An old wartime tune played, and between verses, soft, loving murmurs.
“Maybe they’re watching a film?” Emily offered.
“At this hour? And why’d he say he didn’t hear it?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s deaf?”
They stood, listening. The song changed—older still. The voices faded to whispers.
“Mum, remember Gran’s story about that flat?”
“What story?”
“A young couple lived there ages ago. He went to war and never came back. She waited for him all her life. Played their songs every night.”
Margaret shivered. “Don’t be silly.”
“It’s not silly. Gran said Mrs. Whitmore told her—it was the 1940s. The wife kept his records, played them until she died.”
“And?”
“What if… what if the sounds aren’t from the new neighbours?”
Margaret stepped back. “Emily, enough!”
But the music played on—wartime love songs. The voices—so real, so alive—laughed and sang together.
“Mum, let’s sleep. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
They lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. The songs kept playing—sometimes joyful, sometimes sorrowful.
At dawn, Margaret went to the caretaker.
“Janet, who lives in 38?”
“No one,” Janet said, not looking up from her paper.
“Don’t be daft—I saw a man!”
“Margaret, that flat’s been empty since Mrs. Whitmore passed. No heirs, no tenants.”
“But I *saw* him!”
Janet finally looked up. “What man? You feeling alright?”
Margaret left, unsettled. At home, silence—until evening, when the music started again.
This time, she didn’t complain. She sat, listening. The songs were beautiful, the voices full of love. Slowly, her anger faded.
When Emily returned, she found her mother weeping by the wall.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love. I’m just… listening.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. But they love each other so much. Listen—he’s singing to her.”
Emily sat beside her. A lullaby drifted through the wall.
“Mum… what if it *is* them? From Gran’s story?”
Margaret wiped her eyes. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. They’re not alone. They have each other. And we… we’re hearing their story.”
After that, Margaret never complained again. Each night, she listened—songs, laughter, silence filled with love.
Then, one night, the music stopped.
“Gone?” Emily asked.
“I don’t know.”
The next day, a young man signed the lease for No. 38.
“Finally!” Janet said. “Margaret was losing it, saying someone lived there.”
He moved in quietly—no music, no voices.
Margaret missed the nightly songs. She realised: behind that wall hadn’t been silence. It had been love—timeless, enduring, even beyond life.
“Maybe they finally found each other,” Emily said softly.
Margaret smiled. Now, there was only quiet beyond the wall. But in her heart, the songs played on—of a love stronger than time itself.
