**Diary Entry – 16th October**
Bloody hell, that racket again.
“Turn that blasted telly down!” I shouted, thumping the wall. “It’s the middle of the night, for God’s sake!”
In response, the music swelled louder, like the whole flat next door had become a ruddy concert hall.
“Dad, calm down,” sighed Emily, poking her head out of the kitchen with a cuppa in hand. “Just talk to them properly tomorrow.”
“Properly?” I turned on her, fists clenched. “I’ve been bloody talking to them for weeks! They’re either deaf or thick as mince!”
Another crash from next door—laughter, blokes shouting, the thud of boots. I clutched my chest.
“Christ alive! Back when Mrs. Wilkins lived there, God rest her, it was peaceful. Now? Bedlam.”
Emily set her mug on the windowsill and came over.
“They’re just having a laugh, Dad. Remember when me and Tom used to tear about the place as kids?”
“That was daytime! And you *were* kids! These are grown men acting like drunken yobs!”
The music cut out. Only the ticking of the old kitchen clock and muffled whispers through the wall remained.
“See?” Emily exhaled. “Maybe they’ve finally got the hint.”
Not a chance. Minutes later, an ungodly howling started—long, mournful, animal.
“What the hell’s that?” Emily went pale.
“Dog,” I muttered. “Now they’ve got a bloody great hound too, by the sound of it.”
The beast wailed like its heart was breaking, shifting between whimpers and full-throated shrieks.
“Dad… d’you think it’s hurt? Should we check?”
“Check? They don’t give a toss about anyone!” I banged the wall again. “Shut that thing up!”
Muffled voices answered, but the words were lost. The dog fell silent, then started anew.
I collapsed into my armchair, hands shaking. “Em, I can’t take this. Every bloody night—music, telly, now *this*. I haven’t slept in weeks.”
She perched on the armrest. “Have you called the council?”
“Course I have. Bloke came round. They quieted down for a day, then right back to it. Says he needs proof. How d’you prove noise? They hush up when he’s here, then carry on!”
Another crash—like furniture being dragged. Scraping, thuds, more scraping.
“Moving furniture at one in the morning,” I spat. “Sensible people don’t do that.”
“Dad… what if something’s actually wrong? What if it’s not just them being rowdy?”
“Are you *defending* them?”
“No! But—remember Gran’s stories about old Mr. Harris? He made a racket at night too. Turned out he had… what’s it called… dementia. Didn’t know what he was doing.”
I paused. The noise *was* odd. Not just lads being loud. Something… off. Almost eerie.
“Right.” I stood, pulling on my dressing gown. “I’m going over there. Proper chat. Get to the bottom of this.”
“Dad, it’s one AM!”
“And they’re awake, aren’t they?”
The neighbour’s door was plain, save for the number—38—covered with duct tape, like someone had tried to hide it.
I rang the bell. A chime echoed inside, but no answer. The noise carried on; the dog howled.
“Open up!” I barked. “I’m your neighbour!”
Silence. Then slow, shuffling steps.
The door opened a crack, held by a chain. A single eye—grey, weary—peered out.
“Yeah?” A man’s voice, rough.
“I live next door. Your noise—music, that dog—people can’t sleep.”
“What music?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“What d’you *mean*, what music? It’s playing *now*!”
And it was. Soft, melancholy, but too loud for night.
“Don’t hear any music,” he said.
I faltered. “But—it’s right there!”
“Mate, you feeling alright? Need an ambulance?”
“I’m *fine*! My hearing’s perfect!”
The door shut. I lingered, listening. The music played on, but now… strange. Like it was coming from far away, another time.
Back home, Emily was pressed to the wall, ear against it.
“Well?” I asked.
“It’s… odd. I hear music, but it’s… not right. Like an old gramophone.”
“A gramophone? Who owns those anymore?”
“Dunno. And… I think there’s voices. A man and woman. Talking, but I can’t make it out.”
I pressed my ear to the wall. An old song—something from my youth. Between verses, murmurs. Tender, loving.
“Maybe they’re watching a play?” Emily offered.
“At this hour? And why’d he say he couldn’t hear it?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s deaf?”
We listened. The song ended; another began. Even older. The voices faded to whispers.
“Dad… remember Gran’s stories about that flat?”
“What stories?”
“That a young couple lived there once. Husband and wife. Madly in love. Then he went off to war and never came back. She waited for him her whole life.”
I shivered.
“Em, don’t be daft.”
“It’s not daft! Gran said Mrs. Wilkins told her. That couple lived there in the forties. After he died, she played their favourite records every night till she passed.”
“And?”
“What if… what if the noise isn’t from the new neighbours?”
I stepped back.
“Emily, *enough*.”
But the music kept playing. Old wartime tunes. And the voices—so alive. Him whispering, her laughing. Then singing together.
“Dad, let’s just sleep. Sort it tomorrow.”
We tried, but the songs didn’t stop. One after another. Laughter. Sometimes soft crying.
At dawn, I went to the caretaker.
“Margaret, who’s in number 38?”
“No one,” she said, not looking up from her paper.
“*No one*? There’s people in there!”
“Ol’ Tom, that flat’s been empty six weeks. Since Mrs. Wilkins passed. No next of kin; estate agents are still sorting it.”
“But I *saw* him! A bloke answered the door!”
Margaret finally looked up. “What bloke? Tom, you sure you’re all right?”
“Perfectly! And I *hear* the music!”
“No music. Flat’s empty.”
I went home, bewildered. Emily was at work. The house was silent. But come evening, the music started again.
This time, I didn’t bang the wall. I sat and listened. Beautiful old songs. Young voices, happy. Singing, talking, laughing.
Slowly, the anger faded. It wasn’t noise—it was a story. A love story.
When Emily got back, I was by the wall, weeping.
“Dad?”
“Nothing, love. Just… listening.”
“To who?”
“Dunno. But they love each other. Hear him sing to her? Her answer… they’re happy.”
She sat beside me. A lullaby floated through the wall.
“Dad… maybe it *is* them. From Gran’s stories. Maybe they’re still there. Together.”
I wiped my eyes.
“Y’know, Em… maybe it doesn’t matter who it is. Point is, they’re not alone. They love each other. And we… we’re just hearing their story.”
After that, I stopped complaining. Every night, I’d listen. Songs, whispers, laughter. Sometimes just silence—warm, knowing.
Emily listened too. We never spoke of what it might be. Just accepted it: behind that wall lived love. Old, endless, untouched by time.
Then one night, the music stopped. For good.
“Gone?” Emily asked.
“Dunno.”
Next day, a young bloke signed for number 38.
“Finally!” Margaret said. “Tom here was convinced someone lived there.”
He moved in, brought furniture, a telly. But his flat stayed quiet. No music. No voices.
I missed those nights. Realised then—the silence hadn’t been silence at all. It was love, lasting decades, outliving even death.
“Dad… maybe they left,” Emily said once. “Maybe they finally found each other, somewhere no goodbyes last.”
“Maybe, love. Maybe.”
I smiled. The wall was silent now. But in my heart, those songs still played—of love that outlives time.
