“Beyond the Wall — Not Silence”
“Turn that bloody telly down!” bellowed Margaret Thompson, banging her fist against the wall. “It’s the middle of the night—people are trying to sleep!”
In response, the music roared even louder, as if the neighbour’s flat had become a concert hall with every orchestra in the world playing at once.
“Mum, don’t get worked up,” sighed Emily from the kitchen, cradling a mug of tea. “Just talk to them properly in the morning.”
“Properly?” Margaret spun around, eyes blazing. “I’ve been ‘talking properly’ for a month! They’re either deaf or taking the mick!”
Another crash sounded through the wall, followed by booming laughter and the thud of heavy footsteps. Margaret pressed a hand to her chest.
“Good Lord, what next? Old Mrs. Whitmore lived there before—God rest her soul—peace and quiet, it was. And now…”
Emily set her tea on the windowsill and stepped closer. “Mum, don’t upset yourself. They’re just young blokes having a laugh. Remember how me and Jamie used to tear about the flat when we were kids?”
“That was daytime! And you were children! These are grown men acting like hooligans!”
The music cut off abruptly. In the sudden quiet, only the ticking of the kitchen clock and muffled whispers through the wall remained.
“See?” Emily exhaled in relief. “Maybe they’ve realised they’re being too loud.”
But the reprieve didn’t last. A long, mournful howl pierced the silence—not human, but animal.
“What’s that?” Emily paled.
“A dog,” Margaret said grimly. “Bloody enormous, by the sound of it.”
The howling swelled, raw and aching, as if the creature’s heart were breaking. It tapered into whimpers, then rose again to an unbearable pitch.
“Mum, maybe it’s hurt. Should we check?”
“Check? They couldn’t care less!” Margaret pounded the wall again. “Quiet down! Sort that dog out!”
Indistinct shouts answered her. The dog fell silent briefly before resuming its lament.
Margaret slumped into her armchair, hands trembling on her knees. “Emily, I can’t take it. Every night—music, telly, that wretched dog. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
Emily perched on the armrest. “Have you called the council? The noise team?”
“Last month. They came, had a word. Quiet for a day, then back to it. The officer said there’s no proof. ‘How d’you prove noise?’ he asked. They clam up when he’s here, then carry on once he’s gone.”
Another crash—this time like furniture being dragged. Heavy, grating scrapes echoed through the flat.
“Moving furniture at one in the morning,” Margaret muttered. “Sane people don’t do that.”
“Mum… what if something’s wrong? Maybe it’s not deliberate.”
“Are you defending them?”
“No! But remember Gran’s stories about Uncle Nigel? He used to make a racket at night too. Turned out he had… what was it? Dementia. Didn’t realise what he was doing.”
Margaret frowned. The noise *was* odd—not like typical rowdy neighbours. Something almost… unsettling about it.
“Right,” she said, standing abruptly. “I’m going over there. Enough’s enough.”
“Mum, it’s one in the morning!”
“And they’re clearly awake!”
She threw on her dressing gown, shoved her feet into slippers, and marched onto the landing. The neighbour’s door was plain, unremarkable—except for the number *38* half-covered with duct tape, as if someone had tried to conceal it.
She rang the bell. A chime sounded inside, but no one answered. The noise continued; the dog howled anew.
“Open up!” Margaret called. “I’m your neighbour!”
Silence. Then, slow, shuffling footsteps.
The door opened a crack, held by a chain. A single grey, weary eye peered out.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice asked.
“You’re being terribly loud. The music, the dog—people need sleep!”
“What music?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.
“What d’you mean, ‘what music’? It’s playing right now!”
And it was—a faint, melancholic tune, too loud for the dead of night.
“Don’t hear any music,” the man said.
“Are you having me on? It’s *right there!*”
“Madam, are you unwell? Should I call someone?”
“I’m perfectly well! And I hear perfectly too!”
The door shut. Margaret lingered, listening. The music played on, stranger now—as if drifting from another time.
Back inside, she found Emily pressing her ear to the wall.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“It’s odd, Mum. The music… it sounds like an old record player. Scratchy, distant.”
“A record player? Who uses those anymore?”
“Dunno. And… I think I hear voices. A man and woman talking, but I can’t make out the words.”
Margaret pressed her ear to the plaster. True enough—an old wartime melody floated through, the kind from her youth. Between verses, murmurs: tender, loving.
“Maybe they’re watching a period drama?” Emily ventured.
“At this hour? And why did that man deny hearing it?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s deaf?”
They listened. The song ended; another began, even older. The voices softened to whispers.
“Mum,” Emily hesitated, “remember what Gran said about that flat?”
“What?”
“That a young couple lived there during the war. He went off to fight and never came back. She waited for him her whole life.”
Margaret shivered.
“Emily, don’t be daft.”
“It’s not daft! Gran said Mrs. Whitmore told her. That woman kept playing their favourite songs on a gramophone till she died.”
“And you’re saying…?”
“What if the noise isn’t from the new neighbours?”
Margaret stepped back.
“Enough! No ghost stories!”
But the music played on—pre-war love songs, voices weaving together. A man’s low murmur, a woman’s laughter. Then a duet, sweet and sorrowful.
“Mum, let’s sleep. We’ll sort it tomorrow.”
They tried, but sleep wouldn’t come. The melodies wove through the night—laughter, then weeping, then more songs.
At dawn, Margaret went to the building manager, Doris.
“Who’s in flat 38 now?”
“No one,” Doris said without looking up from her crossword.
“*No one?* There are people living there!”
“Margaret, that flat’s been empty since Mrs. Whitmore passed. No tenants, no heirs—agency’s still processing the paperwork.”
“But I *saw* a man! He answered the door!”
Doris finally glanced up. “What man? Margaret, are you feeling alright?”
“I’m *fine!* And I hear music there every night!”
“What music? The flat’s *empty!*”
Margaret returned home bewildered. Emily was at work. The flat was silent—until dusk, when the music resumed.
This time, Margaret didn’t complain. She sat and listened. The songs were beautiful, the voices achingly young. They sang, they laughed, they whispered secrets.
Slowly, her anger faded. The sounds weren’t a nuisance—they were a story. A love that outlasted time.
When Emily came home, she found her mother by the wall, tears on her cheeks.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love. Just… listening.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know. But they love each other so much. Hear how he sings to her? And how she answers? They’re happy.”
Emily sat beside her. A lullaby floated through the plaster, tender and timeless.
“Mum… maybe it *is* them. From Gran’s stories. Maybe they’re still there. Together.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter who they are. Just that they’re not alone. That they loved. And we… we get to hear it.”
After that, Margaret never complained about the noise. Each evening, she’d listen—to songs, to whispers, to the quiet spaces between. Emily joined her. They didn’t question it; they simply accepted that beyond the wall lived a love too strong for time.
Then, one night, the music stopped. For good.
“Gone away, maybe?” Emily asked.
“Maybe.”
The next day, a young man signed the lease for flat 38. Doris beamed. “Thank goodness! Margaret was convinced someone lived there!”
He moved in quietly—no music, no voices.
Margaret missed the nightly melodies. She realised then: beyond the wall hadn’t been silence. It had been love—persisting, refusing to fade.
“Mum,” Emily said softly one evening, “perhaps they’ve gone where”Maybe they’ve finally found their peace,” Emily whispered, and Margaret nodded, her fingers resting gently against the quiet wall.
