A Workshop Instead of an Office

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 15 minViews 1

28April2025

I slipped the headset off and held it for a heartbeat, feeling a faint warmth travel from the band to my fingertips. The meeting room was growing stale. On the screen a spreadsheet of coloured bars flickered; a voice from the London head office droned on about tightening the budget for the third quarter while the trend line crept downward.

I knew they were about to ask for my input. I could already hear the rehearsed line about process optimisation and workload redistribution forming in my mind. Yet my chest felt hollow. All those buzzwordsprocesses, initiatives, horizontal collaborationseemed to float somewhere away from me, as if they belonged to someone else.

James, are you with us? the speaker snapped, louder than necessary.

I startled and pressed the headset back onto my head.

Yes, Im here. From my side I clicked the mouse and opened my notes. I see potential in reallocating tasks across the regional teams, but we must keep the human factor in mind so we dont lose motivation.

A few heads in tiny windows nodded. Someone logged my comment; another was already checking his email. I said human factor and felt the irony stingwhen had I last felt like a person rather than the title Head of Client Services?

When the call ended the participants streamed back to their desks. The corridor smelled of freshly brewed tea and the sweet scent of bakery rolls from the office machines. I lingered by the window. Below, under a grey March sky, a river of cars surged past; commuters huddled their scarves against the wind as they hurried to the Underground. My reflection stared back from the glassneatly pressed blazer, hair combed, a light dab of foundation. Fortythree, respectable role, decent salary, mortgage, teenage son Oliver. Everything was in order.

Inside, however, it felt as if I was slipping into a second skin every morning.

My phone buzzed. A message from an old schoolmate, Emma: Do you even live there anymore? Always at work. Lets get out this weekend. I typed back halfheartedly, Swamped with a project, then deleted it and wrote, Lets catch up Saturday.

Back at my desk I spotted a small plastic box of needles next to the laptop. A week earlier, during a latenight call with the overseas team, Id snagged the arm of my chair and torn the lining of my jacket. I remembered that the drawer held an old travel sewing kitsomething Id bought just in case years ago.

I sat in the dimly lit office, the monitors glow cutting into my eyes, and slipped off my blazer. With methodical, steady stitches I began mending the torn lining, my fingers recalling the feel of needle and thread. As a child Id patched dolls dresses from my mothers old skirts; at university Id hemmy my own jeans to stand out among a sea of identical coats.

My career had started in a modest bank, then drifted into this conglomerate. Evening courses, reports, endless projects. A sewing machine Id once won as a prize gathered dust in the bedroom cupboard, always promised for later. Later never arrived.

James Harper, could you come in? my assistant, Sophie, poked her head in. The Moscow team needs a consolidated complaints report for the quarter, preferably by end of day.

Send the template, I replied, turning back to the screen.

By evening my eyes were raw, my temples throbbed. I shut the laptop, packed it into my bag, switched off the lights. In the lift I caught my reflection in the mirrored walldark circles under my eyes that no concealer could hide.

At home, Oliver was glued to his tablet, slurping noodles. The sauce Id reheated on the stove was cooling. Hows school? I asked, pulling off my blazer.

Fine, he replied without looking up.

I boiled water for tea, fetched some cheddar from the fridge, and set my bag down with a thud. Numbers, plans, presentations still whirled in my mind, as if my whole life were an endless spreadsheet.

Sleep eluded me that night. In the darkness I heard Olivers soft snoring from the next room, the occasional distant hum of a car outside. My thoughts drifted to the feeling of a needle in my hand and the neat line of stitches on the jacket lining. I remembered the dream I once had of opening a tiny workshop for repairing clothes. Then I married, Oliver was born, and the need for a steady paycheck pushed that dream into the attic, like an old suitcase we never opened.

Morning brought a new email from HR titled Organisational Changes. The body was a list of dry statements about restructuring, merging divisions, and streamlining management layers. An attachment showed a new org chart: my department would be merged into another block, and a new roleDirector of Customer Experiencewould sit above it. The name beside it was unfamiliar.

An hour later I was summoned to the CEOs office. The room smelled of expensive aftershave and fresh coffee. He smiled, tension evident.

James, you know these are challenging times, he began. We need to be more agile, respond faster to the market. Weve decided to combine departments. Your experience is valuable, but He paused. Were offering you the position of advisor to the new director. Its technically a step down, but your salary will stay the same for six months. After that well review.

I nodded, feeling something sink inside me. Advisorsomeone you can push aside at any moment.

I understand, I said. May I have a day to think?

He looked surprised but agreed.

I left the office, walked past the motivational posters shouting about leadership and success. In the restroom I leaned against the cold tile, the thought If not now, when? echoing in my head.

Instead of heading straight home, I lingered at the bus stop, letting the evening air clear my thoughts. I strolled past a chemist, a hair salon, a row of small shops. A faded sign in a basement window read Tailoring & Repair. Beneath it, a handwritten timetable and a phone number.

I slowed. Through the glass I could see a narrow room filled with tables. At a window sat a woman around fifty, glasses perched on her nose, guiding fabric under a sewing machine. Coats, dresses, mens trousers hung on racks. A stack of jeans rested on a chair by the door.

Someone nudged me from behind. You coming in or not? a man with a sack muttered.

I stepped aside, letting him pass. The door opened, and the rhythmic clatter of a sewing machine mixed with the scent of hot iron and soap. It felt oddly familiarlike the evenings my mother would iron laundry in the kitchen.

A surge of fear and excitement rose within me. This little workshop could be another life, one I was terrified to enter.

Back home I paced from room to room. Oliver was back in his headphones. In my inbox lay a draft email to HR titled Resignation. I opened it, stared at the blank body, then closed it.

That night the numbers kept spinning: mortgage, council tax, groceries, Olivers basketball club. My current salary covered it all with a margin. The workshop in the basement would bring in a modest income, no security, no benefits.

The next morning, on my way to work, I slipped into the basement shop. The door chimed. Inside it was warm. On a table lay spools of coloured thread, pins, a measuring tape. The woman looked up.

Good afternoon, I said, my throat dry. Are you hiring?

She squinted, assessing my blazer, polished bag, lowheeled shoes.

You can sew? she asked bluntly.

A little. I used to mend my own clothes and friends dresses. Its been ages, but the hands remember.

She chuckled. Im Maggie. I have one assistant, but she cant stand a whole day on her feet. Theres plenty of work, just no office comfortsdust, threads, a mixed clientele, and the pay is modest. Not a corporation.

I understand, I replied quietly. Could I try a few days? Im still employed, but maybe Ill be free soon.

Maggie studied me longer, then said, Come Saturday. Well see what you can do.

Leaving the shop, my knees trembled. Two voices battled inside me: the sensible one warning about my mortgage, my son, the basement, the threads; the other, softer, recalling the pleasure of guiding fabric under a needle.

Back at the office I queued more emails, more meetings. During lunch I printed a resignation form and slipped it into my desk drawer, never taking it out.

Saturday was drab. Oliver went to friends, promising to be back for dinner. I stood before my wardrobe, eventually choosing jeans and a plain jumper; my blazer hung on a hook like a forgotten coat.

The workshop buzzed. A young woman with a bulging bag sat on the doors chair. I need these jeans taken up, she said. Zipper needs replacing.

Maggie nodded. Go ahead, shes an intern, she told the client. Take a seat.

I settled at an old, wellkept machine. A pile of trousers lay beside me. Maggie showed me how to mark length with pins.

Dont rush, she advised. People pay for neatness.

The first stitches were clumsy. My foot awkwardly pressed the pedal, the thread tangled a few times, my back ached. After half an hour I found a rhythm. The fabric whispered under my fingertips, the needle entered cleanly, leaving a straight line.

By lunch my head swam from the effort. Maggie poured me tea from an old teapot, setting the cup on the edge of the table.

Hows it going? she asked.

Tired, but it feels right, I admitted. Seeing the work come together is satisfying.

Exactly, she replied. Its hard work, hurts the shoulders, eyes, legs, and the pay isnt huge. But if you love it, hang on.

She slipped a few pounds into my hand. For the trial, she said. Think about whether this is for you.

I spread the notes on my kitchen table later. It was barely a tenth of what I earned at the office. I stared at the cash and thought of the countless cups of takeaway coffee Id bought before.

On Monday I walked into the office with a decision. I signed the resignation and handed it to HR. The glasseswearing clerk looked up. Are you sure? You have a good position, seniority.

Absolutely, I said, surprised at the calm in my voice.

Word spread quickly. Colleagues gathered, asking where I was heading.

A small tailoring shop, I told one.

She laughed, thinking it a joke, then grew serious and seemed a bit bewildered.

Why? The money

I know, I replied.

That evening I told Oliver.

Youre quitting? he asked, pulling off his headphones. What about the mortgage?

Im not quitting work, just changing where Im at. The money will be less, well have to tighten the beltfewer food deliveries, fewer splurges. But Ill be home earlier, can cook, can spend time with you.

Im out with mates anyway, he grumbled. And if it fails?

I paused. Then Ill look for something else. But I want to try.

He shrugged, slipped his headphones back on, then muttered, If you stop shouting at night about work, thats a win.

The notice period dragged on. I handed over projects, wrote manuals, answered questions. Colleagues sent flowers, cards, wishing me luck. Some watched me with curiositythis man who suddenly chose a different set of rules.

On my last day I glanced at the glass façade of the building. Inside, lights, airconditioning, endless meetings. Stability, insurance, bonuses, and the fatigue that had become part of me.

Two days later I stepped back into the workshop, no longer a trainee but a proper assistant. Maggie gave me an apron, pointed out where the scissors and ribbons lay.

Dont be afraid of customers, she warned. Theyre all different. Some complain, some thank you. The key is not to take it to heart.

The first weeks were tough. My back and neck ached, my fingers bruised from pins, I mixed up order numbers, occasionally got a length wrong and Maggie had to redo it.

Youre a smart man, she chided. You ran a corporation; now youre dealing with simple things. Measure, dont get distracted.

One afternoon a sharply dressed older lady stormed in, flinging a coat onto the table.

What have you done to my suit? she snapped. You were supposed to shorten the sleeves by two centimetres, you cut ten more.

I recognised the order; Id marked the length myself and must have misread the note.

Lets see, I tried to stay calm.

She held up the jacket; indeed the sleeves were too short.

Its my fault, I said, feeling a lump in my throat. I can add a decorative panel to cover it.

I dont want patches, she snapped. This suit cost more than you earn in a month. Youve ruined it.

Maggie intervened, offered a discount and a free repair on another item. The lady left in a huff, threatening a bad review.

I sat down, covered my face with my hands. The mistake wasnt fatal, but it bruised my pride. In the office errors melted into reports; here each slip was tangible.

Enough, Maggie said. Own the mistake, apologise, learn. Dont beat yourself up. And watch your back.

That evening I arrived home exhausted. Oliver asked, What happened?

I recounted the suit fiasco, the shouting, the threat of a review.

Well, youre human, he said surprisingly. Everyone messes up, even in games. The important thing is not to repeat it.

His simple words hit harder than any corporate stressmanagement module.

Money stayed tight. I sat with a notebook, listed the mandatory outgoingsmortgage, council tax, food, transport, Olivers basketball fees. Then I calculated my new income. It was just enough.

Will have to ditch the taxi, I muttered aloud. And stop ordering takeaway evenings.

I opened the pantry, pulled out a bag of rice and a tin of beans. We could make a simple dinner without delivery. Oliver groaned at the thought of again, rice, but eventually got used to it.

My phone buzzed sometimes with calls from former colleagues. Im now in the basement, stitching other peoples jeans, I joked.

Hows it? they asked.

Hard, but I enjoy seeing the result, I replied. Sometimes I feel Im proving I wasnt wrong.

An old boss called weeks later. James, we have a decent position openingnot as high as yours, but stable. Think about it. You wont be sewing socks forever.

I looked at the thread stuck under my nail. Thanks, but Im not ready to go back. If it gets really bad, Ill call.

Hanging up, a flicker of fear ran through me. No safety net remained. I was now the one making the choice.

Regular clients started to appear. A young man brought trousers each season for a taper; a middleaged woman trusted us with her office dresses, always saying thank you and leaving a small tip.

One afternoon a sixteenyearold girl burst in, backpack slung over her shoulder, sneakers scuffing the floor.

Please help, she pleaded. My graduation dress zipper broke, and the ceremony is in two hours.

She handed me a delicate skyblue dress. The zipper was indeed jammed, the teeth misaligned.

Can we fix it? she asked, eyes wide.

Maggie was busy with a coat, so I took the dress. The fabric was thin, demanding care.

Well manage, I said, though my stomach twisted. Sit, you can wait.

I carefully cut the seam, removed the faulty zipper. My fingers trembled. Thoughts of ruining theWhen I finally slipped a new, gleaming zipper into place and saw her radiant smile, I realized that stitching tiny repairs into others lives had mended my own sense of purpose.

Signatures in the Stairwell Sergei paused by the postboxes in the lobby, because a new notice had appeared on the board usually reserved for lost-cat posters and reminders about meter readings. It had been pinned up hastily, at an angle. At the top, in large letters: “Collecting Signatures. Action Must Be Taken.” Below—a surname from the fifth floor and a short list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, “breach of quiet hours,” “threat to safety.” At the bottom, signatures had begun to gather—some neat, some sprawling. He read it twice, though the meaning was crystal clear at first glance. His fingers reached for the pen in his jacket pocket, but Sergei stopped. Not because he disagreed—he just didn’t like to be pushed. He’d lived in the building twelve years and had learned to keep his distance from block disputes the way you avoid a draught. He already had enough worries: the job at the garage, shift work, his mother after her stroke across town, a teenage son who alternately stayed silent for weeks or exploded over nothing. The landing was quiet, only the distant thud of the lift doors somewhere above. Sergei climbed to his own floor, the fourth, took out his keys, but before unlocking his door, glanced up the stairs to the fifth. That’s where Mrs Valentine lived. In her fifties at a guess, strong-looking, cropped hair, a gaze that always seemed slightly suspicious. She rarely said hello first, answered as if you were an inconvenience. Sergei saw her most often carrying heavy “Tesco” bags or mopping the landing outside her door with a bucket. Sometimes, at night, he really did hear noises from her flat—a crash, a short cry, the scrape of something being dragged. He only checked the residents’ WhatsApp group as needed. It was mostly arguments about parking and the rubbish chute. But recently, it had revolved around a single issue. “Thudding again at two in the morning! My child was frightened!” “I’ve got a 6am start—now I’m a zombie. How much more?” “It’s not thudding, she’s moving furniture, I know it.” “We need to contact the council. There’s a law.” Sergei read and scrolled on. He wasn’t a saint—when a bang woke him at 3 am, he lay there, feeling irritation build in his chest. What he really hoped was that someone else would sort it, so he could wake up and just see: “All sorted.” That evening, he finally messaged the group, briefly: “Who’s collecting signatures? Where’s the sheet?” The block rep, Mrs Nina from number three, replied: “On the ground floor noticeboard. Meeting at mine 7pm tomorrow to discuss. We need to deal with it before it goes too far.” Sergei put down his phone. An unpleasant, familiar feeling stirred inside—the one he’d felt at school meetings, when decisions had already been made and you were just there to tick a box. Next day, he bumped into Mrs Valentine on the stairs. She was struggling up with two heavy bags, breathing hard but stubbornly refusing help. Sergei took one anyway, unasked. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “I’ll carry it,” he replied, walking with her. She stayed silent until her door, then snatched the bag handles back. “Thank you,” she said, in a tone that sounded more like a register-mark than gratitude. Sergei was about to go when he heard a strange sound from inside her flat—someone breathing heavily, moaning. Mrs Valentine froze, her key trembling in the lock. “Is everything… alright?” Sergei asked, not knowing why. “Fine,” she clipped, and quickly went in. He went down to his own flat, but the sound stayed in his mind—not a crash, not music, just that heavy, human noise. A few days later, a note appeared on Mrs Valentine’s door, stuck with tape: “ENOUGH WITH THE NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.” The letters were fat, pressed hard, marker squeaking anger. Sergei stared at the note; the glint of tape was like a fresh wound. It revived a childhood memory: people used to write on his own family’s door when his dad drank and shouted. Back then, Sergei hadn’t even hated his dad as much as he hated neighbours pretending nothing was wrong—until they started whispering. He climbed to the fifth floor and listened. Silence behind the door. Sergei didn’t ring. He carefully removed the note, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took it outside and threw it in the street bin—not the building one, so nobody would see. In the group chat, the debate turned nastier. “She does it deliberately. She doesn’t care about anyone.” “People like that should be moved out. Let her buy a house.” “Police officer says we need a combined statement.” Sergei noticed how quickly ‘noise’ and ‘disturbance’ became ‘people like that’. Like they’d stopped talking about midnight racket and started talking about a person as a problem. Saturday, Sergei came home late. The lift smelt of air freshener and cigarettes. On the fourth floor, he stepped out and heard a dull crash overhead, then another—not DIY noises, but like something heavy falling. Then a woman’s strained voice: “Hold on… just a minute…” Sergei went up to five. The peephole on Mrs Valentine’s door glowed; light spilled out onto the floorboards. He knocked. “Who’s there?”—her strained voice. “Sergei, from four. Are you—” She opened the door on the chain. Bathrobe, a red smear on her cheek as if she’d just wiped her face. “Everything’s fine. Please go,” she said. A hoarse groan came from inside. Sergei blurted out, “Do you need help?” She looked at him as if he’d offered her charity. “No. I have it under control.” “There’s someone—” “My brother. Bedbound.” She said it quickly, to cut off questions. “Please go.” She closed the door. Sergei stood on the landing, feeling torn—part of him wanting to leave because that’s what she’d asked, part wanting to stay, because he’d already heard too much to pretend he didn’t know. He went downstairs, but couldn’t sleep. The word “bedbound” rattled in his head—someone falling, being hauled up, ambulances in the night, bedpans and water fetched, a bed pushed against a wall as the neighbours below seethed. He went to the meeting at Nina’s flat not out of curiosity, but because if he didn’t, he knew he’d feel ashamed after. At seven, people were already queuing at her door—some in slippers, some with jackets hurriedly thrown on. Speaking in low voices, but tension hung in the air. Nina sat everyone around her cramped kitchen table. The signature sheet lay in the middle, next to a printout of the “quiet hours” bylaw and the police community officer’s number. “Here’s the situation,” she began. “We can’t keep putting up with this. We have children, we have work. I take my blood pressure every morning now because I don’t sleep at night. We’re not against anyone, but there are rules.” Sergei noticed how deftly she’d said “not against anyone,” as if the phrase itself soothed people. “I woke up at two again,” said a young, tired-looking woman from six. “My baby had only just nodded off, then that bang—it was like a wardrobe falling. I spent the rest of the night soothing him.” “My dad’s post-op,” said a man in a tracksuit. “He can’t get stressed. He hears this and panics there’s a fire.” “We should call the police every time,” someone else chipped in. “Build a record.” Sergei listened, realising people weren’t exaggerating—they were genuinely exhausted. It made their case strong. “Has anyone actually talked to her?” Sergei asked. “I have,” Nina said. “She was rude. Said ‘If you don’t like it, move out,’ and slammed the door.” “She’s always like that,” said the young woman. “Like we owe her something.” Sergei almost mentioned the brother, but stopped. Wasn’t sure he had the right. Silence was a choice too. “Maybe she’s got…” he started. “We’ve all got something,” Nina cut in. “But we don’t slam around at night.” At that moment, the doorbell rang. Nina went to answer it. Mrs Valentine entered in a dark jacket, hair smoothed, folder and phone in hand. Her face was tight, but not afraid. “I hear I’m the subject of discussion?” she said. The air thickened, like a crowded lift. “We’re discussing the problem,” Nina clarified. “You disturb the neighbours.” “I disturb,” repeated Mrs Valentine, nodding slightly as if agreeing with some private thought. “Alright then. Listen.” She laid her folder on the table, opened it, produced a few papers, a doctor’s note, some prescriptions, her phone. “My brother. First-degree disability. Stroke. Completely immobile. At night, he has attacks. Stops breathing, falls out of bed if I’m too slow. I have to turn him every two hours, or he gets sores. That’s not ‘moving furniture’. That’s me lifting a full-grown man heavier than I am.” Her voice was steady but wavered with exhaustion. Sergei saw bruises on her arms, like proof of the weight she bore. “Three times this month, I’ve had to call an ambulance.” She showed her phone, log of calls. “Doctor’s notes, prescriptions. I shouldn’t have to show you this, but you’re gathering signatures like I’m running a nightclub.” Someone coughed. The young woman from six looked down. “We didn’t know,” she said quietly. “Didn’t know because you didn’t ask,” Mrs Valentine shot back. “You wrote on my door. Abused me online. Called for ‘action’. What action? Want me to drag him onto the landing so it’s quieter for you?” “No one said that,” Nina snapped, “but there are laws. You can’t be loud after eleven.” “The law,” Mrs Valentine snorted. “Fine. Let’s have the law. I’ll call the ambulance and police every time, so they can record me lifting him. You’ll sign off every time—witness statements, yes?” “So we’re just supposed to put up with it?” said Tracksuit Man. His voice broke; Sergei suddenly recognised the strain in him. “My dad’s ill too, I’ve said. I can’t take this every night!” “And you think I can?”—Mrs Valentine fixed him with a direct stare. “You think I want this? You think I get any sleep?” Silence. Nina sighed, a little softer: “You have to understand. People are struggling. If you’d only explained…” “Explained what? That my brother might die in the night? I don’t know how to ask for help. Don’t have anyone to ask.” Sergei realised it was true. They lived “next” to each other, but were never truly neighbours. Just doors. “Can we not shout,” he managed hoarsely. “We’ll either tear each other apart or try to make it bearable for everyone.” All eyes turned to him. Sergei didn’t like being the centre, but it was too late to hide. “I didn’t sign,” he said. “And I won’t. That doesn’t solve it, only creates enemies. But ignoring the noise isn’t right either. People have a point.” Nina pursed her lips. “So what do you suggest?” Sergei thought of the night he’d stood listening to someone moaning. “First, let’s communicate. Mrs Valentine, if you know there’s going to be noise—ambulance, an attack—could you send a quick message to the group? Just ‘Ambulance’ or ‘Attack’. No details, but so people know it’s not drilling.” “I don’t have to,” she snapped, then paused. “Alright. When possible.” “Second,” Sergei addressed the room, “if you hear something loud, instead of threatening the council, why not call or knock? Not with complaints—just check if she needs help. If she doesn’t answer—then take it from there.” “What if she’s rude again?” said the young mum. “Then at least you’ll know you did the decent thing,” Sergei replied. “That matters—for yourselves, not just her.” Nina snorted, but didn’t argue. “And,” Sergei added, turning to Mrs Valentine, “maybe we can look at rubber mats, pads for the furniture legs, moving the bed… I can help, if need be.” Mrs Valentine thought, voice quieter: “The bed won’t move. The hoist is fixed to the frame. But mats—yes. And if someone could sit for an hour during the day sometimes, so I can go to the chemist…” She trailed off. Someone shifted in their chair. “I can do Wednesday,” the mum from six offered, blushing. “My mum’s nearby, she can mind the baby. I’ll pop in.” “Me too,” muttered Tracksuit Man. “Not nights, but during the day, I can help lift him, if that helps.” Sergei felt the tension ease, just a fraction. Nina picked up the signature sheet. “What do we do with this?” Sergei glanced at the names. Even the neighbour who always smiled signed. “I think it should come off the board. If someone needs to make a formal complaint, do it individually, with facts—not just ‘take action’.” “So, you’re against order?” Nina put force into the word. “I’m for order,” Sergei replied. “But order shouldn’t be a sledgehammer.” Mrs Valentine looked up. “Take it down, please. I don’t want to come down every day and see the whole block signing against me.” Nina folded the sheet and put it away. Sergei wondered if she did it begrudgingly or because she sensed the mood had shifted. People left quietly. On the landing, someone attempted a joke; it fizzled out. Sergei and Mrs Valentine left together. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said. “Maybe not,” Sergei replied. “But I didn’t want it ending with the police.” “It will anyway—next time he gets worse.” Sergei wanted to ask the brother’s name, but couldn’t. Instead he said, “If you really get stuck at night, if you need help lifting—knock. I’m nearby.” She nodded, not looking at him. Next day, the notice was gone. Instead, a new message was posted in the group: “Agreed: in emergencies, Mrs Valentine will give a heads up. Please, no disputes at night. Daytime help—sign up with me.” Sergei was surprised by the word “rota”. It sounded more formal than their little block deserved. An hour later, people were genuinely arranging days—Monday, Friday, some just stayed silent. The first night after, the banging didn’t stop. At 2:17am, Sergei was jolted awake. In the group, a single message: “Attack. Ambulance on its way.” No emojis. No pleas. Sergei lay listening to doors slamming above, footsteps on the stairs. Imagined Mrs Valentine holding her brother, stopping him from choking. The old anger didn’t vanish, but something heavier replaced it. Next morning, in the lift, Nina looked rumpled. “Well, it was noisy again last night,” she said. “Ambulance was here,” Sergei replied. “I… I saw. I didn’t know it was like that. But still—Sergei, I really can’t sleep. My heart…” He nodded. He couldn’t substitute her heart. “Maybe earplugs?” he suggested, wincing at how weak it sounded. “Earplugs—” Nina gave a gentle, tired laugh. “Look what we’ve come to.” A week later, Sergei dropped by Mrs Valentine’s. He had a pack of rubber pads for the furniture and a heavy floor mat. She opened the door at once, as though expecting him. The flat smelt of medicine, sharp like a hospital. In the room: a bed jammed against the wall. On it, a thin man, unmoving, eyes open but staring ahead. Nearby, a homemade hoist, bolted in place. Sergei saw why the bed “couldn’t be moved.” “Here,” he offered, showing her the mat. “If we slip this under, maybe the sound won’t carry. And these for the stool—you said it bangs?” “The stool bangs when I put the basin down,” she said. “I try, but my hands…” She gazed at her palms, cracked from constant scrubbing. Sergei quietly helped put the mat in place, gentle so as not to disturb the hoist. His own back twinged from the effort. Mrs Valentine watched anxiously. “Thank you,” she said, and this time, it sounded different. Sergei nodded, ready to leave when her phone rang. She listened, her face clouded. “No, I can’t, not now… Yes. No.” She hung up and looked at Sergei. “Social services. They said only two hours a week for a carer—if I wait my turn. But I need help daily.” Sergei didn’t answer. He knew their DIY “rota” was just a sticking plaster. That evening, someone in the group wrote: “Why should we help? It’s her family—do it properly.” Replies flew; some angry, some explaining, some just full stops. Sergei scrolled past. He was weary, not of Mrs Valentine, but of how easily any act of kindness devolved into a fight over what’s fair. A few days later, a new sheet showed up on the downstairs board—not demanding “action”, but a timetable: days, times, names. At the bottom—Mrs Valentine’s number and a note: “If it’s an emergency at night, I’ll message. If you can help lift or meet the ambulance, let me know.” This sheet hung tidily. Sergei found he disliked seeing it almost as much as the signatures—only now, it was for another reason. The block had admitted: calamity could be scheduled, slotted neatly onto a timetable. One night, the noise was too much, and Sergei climbed upstairs. Mrs Valentine was cursing under her breath—as if at a body that wouldn’t obey. He knocked. She opened, no chain. “Help me,” she said simply. Inside, her brother was sprawled on the floor, gasping. Together, they lifted him back to bed—slow, careful, back muscles straining. Mrs Valentine didn’t cry or thank him, just adjusted his pillow, checked his breath. As Sergei left, he heard a neighbour opening their door, peeking out quietly. Then it shut. No one came to help, no one called out. The block held its breath. Morning—Sergei saw Victor, who’d signed against Mrs Valentine, avoiding his gaze. “Look—I, I signed because, well, it got to me. But I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have…” “I get it,” Sergei said. “Doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do next.” Victor nodded, face tight, unwilling to admit fault. The compromise worked. Not perfectly, but it worked. At night, sometimes a “Ambulance” or “Fallen” pinged in the chat. People were less likely to vent their rage at 2am, more likely to grumble in the morning once tempers cooled. Some dropped in to help Mrs Valentine, others did it once and faded away. Nina kept the rota, but empty slots opened up. Sergei noticed less small talk in the block. People said hello more cautiously, as if every word risked starting another argument. No more nasty notes, but also none of the old friendliness. Even lightbulb discussions sounded tense: “Let’s not go there again.” One evening, Sergei found Mrs Valentine by the lift, bag of medicines and a flask in hand, her face grey from exhaustion. “How is he?” he asked. “He’s alive,” she said. “Quiet today.” They went up together. On the fourth floor, Sergei lingered a moment. “If you ever—need anything—knock.” She nodded, then added quietly, “At the meeting, I… I didn’t mean—” She couldn’t finish, waved a hand. “I know,” Sergei said. The lift doors slid shut; Sergei was left on the landing alone. He opened his door, shrugged off his coat, lined up his shoes on the mat. The flat was silent: his son in headphones, his mum on the phone asking when he’d visit. Sergei stared at his screen, then at the door that led back to the stairwell. He thought about those sheets of paper that can change people—one with signatures against someone, another with names of those able to help for an hour. And how the distance between those sheets was somehow shorter than the distance between neighbours living through just one wall. That night, the chat filled up with posts about rubbish and the lift. Someone thanked those who’d helped that day; asked to keep things private in future. The message was quickly drowned in everyday chat. Sergei turned off his phone, set the kettle to boil. He knew he might be woken by a crash in the night—and knew, now, that when he did, his thoughts wouldn’t just be about his own sleep. It didn’t make him better. It just made him part of it.