**Silence Behind the Wall**
“Would you turn that damned telly down!” Margaret shouted, hammering her fist against the wallpaper. “It’s the middle of the bloody night—people are trying to sleep!”
In response, the music only swelled louder, as if the flat next door had transformed into a concert hall hosting every orchestra in the world at once.
“Mum, calm down,” sighed Emily, stepping out from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea. “Just talk to them properly tomorrow, yeah?”
“Properly?” Margaret whirled on her daughter, eyes blazing. “I’ve been *talking* for a month! They might as well be deaf—or they just don’t care!”
Another crash shuddered through the wall—male voices laughing, footsteps thudding. Margaret clutched her chest.
“Good Lord, what is this? Old Mrs. Whitaker used to live there, God rest her soul—peace and quiet, it was. Now…”
Emily set her cup on the windowsill and wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mum, don’t work yourself up. They’re young lads—just having a laugh. Remember how me and Jake used to tear about the flat when we were kids?”
“That was *daytime*! And you *were* kids! These are grown men acting like drunken teenagers!”
The music cut off abruptly. The sudden quiet was broken only by the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and a muffled whisper through the plaster.
“See?” Emily exhaled. “Maybe they’ve realized they’re being prats.”
But relief was short-lived. Minutes later, a long, mournful howl pierced the air—not human. *Animal.*
“What—what’s that?” Emily paled.
“A dog,” Margaret muttered darkly. “Blighter sounds massive.”
The howl spiraled into a whine, then climbed again, wretched as a funeral dirge.
“Mum, what if it’s hurt? Should we help?”
“Help? They don’t give a toss about anyone!” Margaret smacked the wall again. “Shut that dog up! D’you hear? *Shut it up!*”
Voices rumbled in reply, but the words were lost. The dog fell silent—then wailed anew, louder.
Margaret sank into her armchair, hands trembling on her knees. “*Emily*, I can’t take this. Night after night—music, telly, now this bloody dog. I haven’t slept in weeks.”
Her daughter perched on the chair’s arm. “Have you called the landlord?”
“*Called* him. Came round, had a word. They quieted down for a *day*—then right back to it. Says we need proof. How d’you prove *noise*? They go quiet as mice when he’s here!”
Another crash—scraping, heavy. Furniture being dragged.
“Rearranging the lounge at one in the morning,” Margaret whispered. “Sensible people don’t do that.”
“Mum… what if something’s *wrong*? What if they’re not doing it on purpose?”
“Emily, are you *defending* them?”
“No! But—remember Gran’s stories about Uncle Martin? He used to bang about at night, and it turned out he had… what was it? Dementia. Didn’t *know* what he was doing.”
Margaret hesitated. The noise *was* odd—not the usual drunken row. Something almost… unnatural.
“Right,” she snapped, standing. “I’m going over there.”
“Mum, it’s *one AM*!”
“And they’re *awake*!”
She threw on her dressing gown and marched to the landing. The neighbor’s door was unremarkable—save for its number, *38*, half-taped over like a secret.
The doorbell chimed inside. No answer. The dog howled.
“Open up!” Margaret demanded. “I live next door!”
Silence. Then—slow, shuffling steps.
The door cracked open on its chain. A single grey eye stared out.
“Can I help you?” A man’s voice, rough with sleep.
“Your *noise*—the music, the dog! People can’t sleep!”
“What music?” Genuine confusion.
Margaret faltered. “*That!* Don’t you hear it?”
The strains of a sombre melody drifted through the wall—soft, but unmistakable.
“Don’t hear a thing,” the man said. “You feeling alright, love? Need a doctor?”
“I’m *fine*!”
The door shut. Margaret stood frozen. The music played on—but now it sounded distant, *old*, like a wireless left on in another decade.
Back inside, she found Emily pressing her ear to the wall.
“Well?” Margaret hissed.
“It’s… weird. The music—sounds like a gramophone. And voices… a man and woman talking, but I can’t…”
Margaret pressed closer. The song *was* vintage—something from her youth. Between verses, whispers: tender, intimate.
“Maybe they’re watching an old film?” Emily ventured.
“At *this* hour? And why’d he claim he heard nothing?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s deaf?”
They listened. The song faded; another began. The voices softened to sighs.
“Mum… remember Gran’s story about this flat?”
“What story?”
“That couple—years ago. Husband went off to war, never came back. Wife waited for him *decades*. Played their songs every night.”
Margaret shivered. “*Emily*—”
“Gran swore Mrs. Whitaker told her. They lived here in the *forties*. She kept his records till the day she died.”
“And you think—?”
“What if… it’s *not* the new neighbors?”
Margaret stepped back. “*Stop it.*”
But the music continued—wartime ballads. A man murmuring, a woman’s laugh. Then, faint but clear: two voices singing together.
They didn’t sleep that night.
At dawn, Margaret cornered the concierge. “*Janine*, who’s in Flat 38?”
Janine didn’t glance up from her paper. “No one. Been empty six weeks. Estate’s still sorting the paperwork after old Mrs. Whitaker passed.”
“I *saw* someone! A man!”
Janine finally looked up. “What man? Margaret, you sure you’re well?”
Margaret stormed off. That evening, the music returned.
This time, she didn’t pound the wall. She sat, *listened*. The songs were bittersweet—love letters in melody. The voices? Full of joy.
By the time Emily came home, Margaret was crying by the wall.
“Mum—?”
“It’s… beautiful. The way he sings to her. How happy they are.”
Emily knelt beside her. A lullaby floated through the plaster—soft, aching.
“Mum… d’you think it’s really… *them*?”
Margaret wiped her eyes. “Does it matter? They’re not alone. And we—we get to hear it.”
From then on, they stopped complaining. Every night, they listened—to love that outlasted time itself.
Then, one evening: silence.
“Gone away, maybe?” Emily whispered.
The next day, a new tenant arrived—a bloke with boxes and a telly. His flat stayed quiet.
Margaret missed the songs. She realized, then: Behind the wall hadn’t been silence. It had been *love*—persisting, perfect.
“Mum… maybe they finally found each other,” Emily said softly. “Somewhere no wars split people apart.”
Margaret smiled. Now, there was only quiet. But in her heart, the melodies played on—proof that some things never truly end.
