Oliver lived in a ninestorey council tower where the walls were as thin as parchment, and every neighbors sneeze reverberated through the radiators.
He had grown used to doors slamming, to arguments about moving furniture, to the lowmurmur of an elderly ladys TV downstairs. Nothing rattled him any more.
But the construction that the man above himAndrewwas carrying out drove him to the brink and forced a torrent of curses from his lips.
Every Saturday, that troublesome fellow would unleash a drill or a hammerdrill without a flicker of conscience.
Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven. Always on a day off, and always right when Oliver was desperate for a few extra hours of sleep.
At first Oliver, a man who never courted conflict, tried to be philosophical: Maybe its just a long renovation I can understand he told himself, tossing from side to side in bed, pulling his pillow over his head.
Weeks slipped by, and the hammerdrill still shattered his Saturday mornings, in short bursts or long, droning whines. It seemed Andrew would start a job, abandon it, then return to it with renewed vigor.
Occasionally the maddening noise invaded not only the mornings but also weekday evenings around seven, when Oliver trudged home hoping for quiet. Each time a surge of anger rose, urging him to confront the neighbour, but fatigue, laziness, and an instinct to avoid a fight held him back.
One Saturday, as the drill whirred overhead yet again, Oliver could take no more. He burst up the stairs, rang the bell, pounded on the dooronly to be met with silence. The cursed hammerdrill roared on, vibrations pulsing straight into his skull.
Someday Ill! he shouted, the words choking off before he could finish. He did not even know what someday meant.
His mind raced through fantasies: calling the landlord, lodging a complaint, dragging a police constable out, even plugging the vents with foam.
Sometimes he imagined Andrew finally realizing hed become a nuisance, apologising, moving out, anythingjust to stop the drilling.
The noise had become a symbol of injustice for Oliver. He kept thinking, If only someone in this building would stand up and put an end to this madness! Yet everyone kept to their own flat, untouched by the turmoil.
Then something he never saw coming happened.
***
One Saturday morning Oliver awoke not to the clatter, but to an almost palpable silence.
He lay still, ears straining for the dreaded whine, but the quiet was thick, calm, almost tangible.
Broken! a thrilled thought flashed through his mind. Or maybe the monsters left?
The day passed with a strange sense of liberty. The vacuum hummed softly, the kettle sang gently, and the television no longer shuddered the ceiling.
Oliver sat on the sofa, catching himself smilingbroad, childish.
***
Sunday was quiet. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesdayall the same. The sound seemed to have been cut out of his life.
The hush from above lingered for nearly a week. Oliver stopped blaming it on repairs, holidays, or coincidence. The stillness felt unnatural, uneasya stark contrast after months of relentless noise.
***
He stood before Andrews flat door for a long time, gathering courage, asking himself why he wanted to go in. To check that everything was alright? Or to make sure his own nerves werent playing tricks?
He pressed the buzzer.
The door swung open almost instantly, and Oliver sensed something was wrong.
On the landing stood a heavily pregnant woman, her face pale, eyelids swollen. He had only glimpsed her a couple of times before, but now she seemed years older.
You Andrews wife? he asked cautiously.
She nodded.
What happened? I I havent heard any
His throat tightened; the words died in his mouth. How could he possibly explain that hed come because of silence?
She stepped aside, letting him in. Then a soft voice whispered:
Lesh is gone.
Oliver didnt grasp it at first. It took a few seconds for the pieces to click together.
When when?
Last Saturday, early morning, she sniffed, wiping a tear. You see the endless repairs he was exhausted. He always worked on weekendsnever had time during the week. That morning he got up before me, wanted to finish the crib. He was in a rush, afraid he wouldnt make it.
She gestured toward the back of the flat.
There, against the wall, lay a halfassembled baby cribits parts still boxed, instruction sheets, screws and fittings scattered on the floor.
He simply fell, she whispered. His heart stopped. I didnt even get a chance to wake up.
Oliver stood rooted, as if his feet had fused to the floor. The womans words sank slowly, heavily, into his consciousness.
***
The noise the very noise that had driven him mad, that had rung in his ears every Saturday, was now a memory. He lowered his gaze to the box of crib partstiny screws, a hex key, numbered stickerseverything laid out with a care only someone who truly wanted something important would show.
Do you need any help? he began quietly, but the woman shook her head.
No, thank you nothing
Oliver slipped out almost on tiptoes, as if fleeing from fresh wound.
He descended the stairs, gripping the banister, each step echoing with a dull, shapeless guilt that burned inside him.
***
Back in his flat, he stared at the ceiling. The silence hung dense, heavy, as if it were judging him.
Perhaps it was his hatred of Andrew that had festeredhate born only because the man stole his sleep? He had cursed him, turned him into nothing more than a sound, an inconvenience.
Now the man was gone.
In his place stood a woman mourning a father who would never hold his child. A crib awaited its assembly, but never would be finished.
I should go to her help, Oliver thought. She wont be able to do it alone.
***
That evening, after his thoughts settled, Oliver looked up at the ceiling once more. The dead quiet still lingered.
He sat in his dim kitchen, realizing he wouldnt be able to sleep peacefully tonight. He went back upstairs, rang the buzzer. The door opened, the woman raising an eyebrow in surpriseshe hadnt expected him.
Flushed with embarrassment, Oliver spoke softly:
Listen I know we hardly know each other, but if youll let me I can put the crib together. He wanted it ready. And Id like to help.
She stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing his words, then slowly nodded.
Come in.
Oliver entered, stepping carefully over the boxes.
He worked in silence for hours, tightening bolts, aligning the wooden rails. The woman sat on the couch, cradling her belly, occasionally sighing quietly, trying not to disturb him. When he finally tightened the last screw and lifted the crib into place, the room seemed to exhale.
She moved nearer, her hand brushing the smooth rail.
Thank you, she whispered. You cant imagine how much this means.
Oliver could only nod, speechless.
As he turned to leave, a rare feeling settled over hima sense that, for the first time in a long while, he had done something truly right, and that he would return to this place, not as a victim of noise, but as someone who had eased anothers grief.
