The Morning Circuit On the lift door, someone had once again taped up a sign: “PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE BAGS BY THE RUBBISH CHUTE.” The tape barely clung on, the corners of the page curling. The hallway light flickered, making the message look by turns harsh and faint—like the mood in the flat’s WhatsApp group. Nadia Palmer stood in the corridor, keys in hand, listening to the drill take up its phrase, falter, then try again somewhere on the sixth floor. The noise itself didn’t make her angry. What did was how every little thing became a trial: someone typing in ALL CAPS, another replying with cutting remarks, someone else sending a photo of a neighbour’s muddy boots outside their door—a sign, apparently, of moral decay. All of it seemed to demand her involvement, when all she really wanted by now was quiet inside her head. Up in her flat, she unloaded her shopping onto the kitchen table with her coat still on and opened the chat. Pinned at the top was: “WHO PARKED ON THE CHILDREN’S PLAYGROUND LAST NIGHT.” Then a photo of a tyre on the curb. Someone chimed in: “AND WHO NEVER SAYS HELLO IN THE HALLWAY.” As Nadia scrolled, a familiar irritation swelled. She caught herself thinking she was tired—tired of witnessing other people’s disputes, tired of her own urge to quietly add fuel to the fire. Next morning she awoke not out of rest but out of habit, her body like an old alarm clock. The room was chilly, radiators hissing. She pulled on her exercise jacket and trainers—bought “for walking” but rarely worn—and ventured onto the landing. The air smelled as it always did: dust, paint from the old banisters, and something neutral she couldn’t quite describe. At the lift, she checked the community noticeboard: printouts about meter readings, a lost cat, an “owners’ meeting.” Nadia pulled a page from her bag, prepared the night before, and pinned it up. “MORNING WALKS AROUND THE BLOCK. No chat required. No commitment. 7:15am at the main entrance if you fancy it. Just one lap and done. N.Palmer.” She was surprised how easy it had been to write. Not ‘let’s all make friends’, not ‘let’s be decent’, just—steps. At 7:12, she stood by the entrance, double-checked the gas was off and windows shut. Keys and phone in her pocket, hat on her head. She expected to wait a minute, then leave as if that had been her plan all along. The door banged and a woman about forty-five, with neatly pulled-back hair and the wary look of someone braced for pain, stepped out. “You… from the notice?” she asked, adjusting her scarf. “I am,” Nadia said. “Nadia.” “Susan. My doctor told me to walk because of my back, but on my own it’s dull,” she admitted, hastily adding, “I’m not a talker.” “That’s fine,” said Nadia. A minute later, a slightly stooped man in a dark coat appeared, nodded, and hesitated as if unsure whether a greeting was required. “Morning. I’m Gary. Fifth floor,” he said. “Sixth,” Nadia corrected automatically—she always knew who lived where—and smiled wryly at her own impulse to categorise. Gary grinned. “Sixth then. My mistake.” Then a tall man in his sixties, with a runner’s stride and a sporty cap, joined without a word. “Victor,” he announced. “I do this every morning anyway. Thought I was the only one.” At 7:16, they set off. Nadia had picked a simple route: round the block, past the shop, across the next-door courtyard, by the school and back. The snow underfoot was compressed, sometimes slick. The air stung their breath. At first, they walked in silence, tuning in to their own steps. Nadia found her body resisting, then settling. The static of everyone else’s grievances faded, replaced by an emptiness that felt like a blank page—practical, not frightening. At the corner, Gary finally said, “Didn’t think you meant ‘no chatting’. There’s always chat.” “If you want to, feel free—just no reporting,” Nadia replied. Susan chuckled quietly, then winced and touched her back. “You all right?” Nadia asked. “I’ll manage. Just can’t stop suddenly.” Victor paced evenly, as if counting. On the way back, he commented, “Much better like this. No meetings. Just a walk.” By the time they finished, it was 7:38. They lingered at the entrance, awkward as after a short business meeting. “Tomorrow?” Susan asked. “If you’re here,” Nadia said. “I’ll be here,” Gary replied, raising a hand. Next day, they were three; Victor was absent, but a fourth-floor neighbour, Tanya—forties, bright puffer jacket, sceptical—showed up. “I’m just watching,” she said, not introducing herself. “Watch away,” Nadia replied, setting off without explanation. Tanya walked beside Gary, silent on the first circuit. By next week’s round, she added: “I’m not one for these ‘groups’. Always a whip-round, and if you don’t chip in, you’re the enemy.” “No money involved,” Gary said. “Allergic after my divorce. Hated the joint pots.” Nadia heard the word “divorce” but didn’t pry. She knew too well how someone else’s pain becomes neighbourhood gossip—then ammunition. The walks became habit. At 7:15 they’d set out, at 7:40 they’d part. Some skipped days, then returned. Susan brought a tiny water bottle. Gary once turned up hatless and grumbled all the way round, but didn’t bail. Tanya started aloof, ended up walking closer. Gradually, this odd routine seeped into the building. Nadia noticed people exchanging greetings more. Not out of duty, but because they’d already faced one another stripped of their usual armour. One evening, Nadia returned from the GP with notes in her bag. Victor was at the lift, fiddling with a sticky button. “Not working?” she asked. “It works,” he said. “You have to press with confidence.” He pressed; the lift arrived. Inside, the bulb glowed, the mirror was scratched. He added unexpectedly, “Thank you for the walking. I thought I was past having company. It’s good.” Nadia nodded, warmth stirring inside, but she didn’t let it turn sentimental. She simply noted: someone felt lighter. Small favours started naturally. One morning, Gary silently flagged that Susan’s shoelace was untied. Later she posted in the group: “Thank you, whoever warned me—could’ve tripped!” No names, but a smile in the words. Tanya once left a bag of salt for the steps. “Not for everyone,” she said, putting it down by the wall. “For me. So I don’t end up flat.” “Thanks all the same,” said Nadia. They salted the steps together. Tanya wiped her gloves and muttered, “Suppose I might as well…” The group chat now had fewer ALL CAPS messages. Not none, but fewer. Arguments about rubbish and parking continued, but sometimes someone wrote, “Let’s keep it civil, yeah?” and it sounded less like a slogan, more like a genuine suggestion. Trouble came at the end of November: noisy renovations above—Andy from the sixth, the young man with a dog. Evening drilling, unlike before. The group chat flared: “Enough already!” “Some of us have kids!” “Do you even care?” Tanya messaged: “I know who. He’s always like this. He doesn’t give a damn.” On the next morning’s walk, Susan moved stiffly, each step a twinge and a frustration. “It’s him,” she said as they passed the school. “Sixth. Right above me. Last night till ten. Afterwards, I could still hear the drill in my head.” Gary grunted. “Legally he’s fine till eleven, as long as—” “I don’t want ‘legally’—” Susan broke in. “It’s about respect.” For once Tanya dropped the sarcasm. “He needs dealing with—signatures, call the warden. Make him realise.” Nadia sensed how quickly the warm circle became a familiar front. She feared—not the drilling, but how easily they slid back into “us versus him.” “We collect signatures later,” she said. “Let’s talk first.” “With him?” Tanya stopped in disbelief. “Seriously? He’ll just—” “He’s a person, not a case file,” Nadia said. Gary gave her a searching look. “You’ll do it yourself?” Nadia hardly wanted to. She wished things would just go quiet by themselves. But if they staged a public lynching, the morning walks would shrivel to grievances, then vanish. “I’ll talk,” Nadia said. “But I need someone to come. Not a crowd.” Gary nodded. “I’ll come.” That evening, they climbed to the sixth. Nadia messaged Andy privately first: “Could we talk? Nadia from downstairs.” Ten minutes later: “Sure, come by.” His door was flanked by neat rubble bags. Nadia knocked. Silence—then Andy appeared, T-shirted, dusty. His ginger dog poked out, retreated. “Evening,” he said guardedly. “What’s up?” “We aren’t here for a row,” Nadia said, feeling ridiculous even as she spoke. “Just—about the work.” Gary kept quiet, beside her. “I try to finish by nine,” Andy said. “My crew can’t come during the day. I have to do it after work.” “We get it,” Nadia replied. “But Susan has a bad back. Gets difficult with all the noise till ten.” Andy exhaled. “Didn’t realise. Thought it was the usual: messages in the group, no one says anything face to face.” Nadia felt a prick of shame. Face-to-face was rare. “Maybe you could message when you really need to go late?” she suggested. “And take the bins out in the morning?” Andy eyed the bags. “I will—tomorrow, by car. Just late today.” “Fine,” Gary said. “And noise?” “Usually nine, maybe half-nine at the latest. I’ll post ahead if it runs over—won’t be often.” Nadia nodded. “And the dog—he sometimes barks at night…” Andy blushed. “When I leave he gets lonely. I can sort something for him… And if there’s trouble, just message. Please—not the big group straight away?” They left. On the stairs, Gary murmured, “He’s all right. Just young and alone.” “We’re all lonely, in our way,” Nadia said, surprised to hear it aloud. Next day Andy posted: “Neighbours, I’ll be working till 9pm. If longer, I’ll warn you. Taking bins out early.” Some reacted; most didn’t. Tanya wrote, “We’ll see.” But there were no ALL CAPS. At the next walk, Tanya arrived stone-faced. “So?” she asked. “Did you sort it?” “We did. He’s agreed to nine and to warn us,” Nadia replied. “That’s it?” Tanya wanted a scalp, a confession that her way was best. “That’s it. We’re not here to score points.” Tanya snorted, but walked on. Soon she added, eyes averted: “Well. If he pushes it, I’m saying something.” “Go ahead—just to him first,” Nadia said. Susan, beside her, murmured: “Thanks for not turning it into a witch-hunt. I couldn’t have borne that.” Nadia felt a lump in her throat, breathed in icy air to swallow it. A week later, Victor stopped coming. Nadia found him at the post boxes. “Haven’t seen you,” she said. “Knee,” he replied briskly. “Doctor’s orders. Don’t overdo it.” “Shame,” Nadia said. “I see you anyway,” Victor added. “You go by; I open my window. Feels like taking part.” Silly, but moving. By New Year, the regulars were Nadia, Susan, and Gary. Tanya joined now and then, sometimes vanishing for a week, checking if the group still stood. Andy came for a walk or two, drained from building works. He made his lap in silence, then ducked away early. The building wasn’t perfect. Bags still clustered by the chute; cars still blocked spaces bloatedly. The chat still fizzed now and again. But Nadia felt that in her home there lingered something besides irritation—a trace of what else was possible. One January morning, at 7:14 she stepped out. Gary was already zipping his coat. He looked up: “Morning, Nadia.” “Morning, Gary.” Susan joined, testing the salted steps. “Hi. My back’s okay today,” she said, a small triumph beneath her smile. Tanya surfaced, sleepy, minus her usual edge. “I’m in, but no chat gossip,” she mumbled. “Deal,” Nadia replied. They set off, steps falling into sync—not flawless, but steady. At a corner, Gary caught Susan when she slipped; he did it so naturally no one thanked him out loud. As they returned, Andy waited with his dog. “Morning,” he greeted. “I’ll join later, on my way to work. And… thanks for coming to me about the noise.” Nadia nodded. “We all live here,” she said. It didn’t sound like a motto. It was just the truth—finally, no longer a reason for war.

Morning Circle

Someone had once again taped a paper to the lift door: DO NOT LEAVE BAGS BY THE RUBBISH CHUTE. The tape was barely hanging on, the paper already curling at the corners. The hallway light flickered, making the sign seem sometimes harsh, sometimes faintlike the mood in the building group chat.

Margaret Hillier stood with her keys in hand, listening to the way a drill would catch and stutter somewhere behind the plaster on the sixth floor. She wasnt angry at the sound itself. What annoyed her was how every little thing always turned into a tribunal: someone typing in all caps, someone else firing back sarcastically, yet another posting photos of others shoes by their doors as irrefutable evidence of moral decay. It always seemed as if she was being summoned to participate, even though all she longed for these days was peace and quiet inside her own head.

She made her way up, placed her groceries on the kitchen table without removing her coat, and opened the group chat. At the top there was a message: WHO PARKED ON THE PLAYGROUND LAST NIGHT. Underneatha close-up of a tyre on the curb. Then: AND WHO NEVER EVEN SAYS HELLO IN THE HALLWAY. Margaret scrolled through, feeling that old wave of irritation sweep through her chest, and then stopped herself: she realised she was just sick of being a witness to everyones drama. And tired, too, of her own readiness to add fuel to the fire, even if only by her silence.

The next morning, she woke early, not because shed slept wellher body, like an old alarm clock, just went off of its own accord. The room was chilly, the radiators hissing softly. She pulled on a tracksuit top, found the nearly new trainers in the hall shed bought for walking and barely worn, and stepped out onto the landing. The air there was musty as always: a bit like dust, a whiff of paint from old railings, and something else so nondescript it defied description.

She stopped by the lift, glancing at the noticeboard. Printouts dangled there about checking gas meters, a missing cat, and a residents meeting. Margaret reached into her bag, pulled out the sheet shed prepared the night before, and pinned it up carefully with drawing pins.

Early morning walks around the block. No small talk, no obligation. 7:15 outside the main entrance. Just one circuitthen go your own way. M. Hillier

She was surprised by how easily the words had come. Not lets all be friends, not lets be more neighbourly, juststeps.

At 7:12, she was already waiting by the entrance, having double-checked shed turned off the gas and secured the windows. Keys and phone gripped in her hands, a hat pulled down over her ears. She was bracing herself to stand for a moment and then slip away, pretending that had been her plan all along.

The main door clattered and a woman of around forty-five, hair neatly tied back and an expression of bracing for pain, stepped outside.

You about the walk? she asked, adjusting her scarf.

Yes, Margaret replied. Im Margaret.

Emma. Bad backthe doctor says walk, but on my own its miserable, the woman confessed, then quickly, as if apologising, added, Im not much of a talker.

You dont have to be, said Margaret.

A minute later, a man turned up, a bit stooped in a dark jacket. He nodded, looked at them as if debating whether he ought to say hello, then finally managed:

Morning. Im Gordon. Fifth floor.

Sixth, Margaret corrected him automaticallyshe always remembered where everyone lived. And with that, she caught herself: that desire to keep everything in its proper box.

Gordon gave a brief grin. Right. Sixth. My mistake.

A fourth arriveda tall man of about sixty, in a beanie, with a walk that seemed to recall old days on a football field. He didnt ask anything, just positioned himself next to them.

Martin, he said, curtly. Im always out walking in the mornings. Thought I was the only one.

At 7:16, they set off. Margaret had picked a simple route: round the block, past the corner shop, through the next doors garden, along the road by the local school, and back again. The pavement was packed with old snow, slippery in places. The air was sharp and cold, and nobody spoke for the first few minuteseveryone tuning in to the sound of their own footsteps.

Margaret found her legs protested at first, then gradually fell into the rhythm. In her headusually buzzing with other peoples gripesthere appeared a welcome emptiness, but not a frightening one; more like a fresh, blank page.

On the bend by the school, Gordon suddenly said, I thought you were joking about no chit-chat. Isnt it always about the chat?

If you feel like talking, go ahead, Margaret replied. Justno reports, all right?

Emma laughed quietly, but immediately winced and pressed her hand to her lower back.

You alright? Margaret asked.

Ill live. Just got to keep moving, thats all.

Martin walked with steady precision, almost as if counting paces. As they approached home again, he piped up, This is good. None of those meetings. Just walk.

It was 7:38 when they returned. Everyone hovered awkwardly by the door, as though after a short work briefing.

Tomorrow? Emma ventured.

If you come out, Margaret said.

Ill be here, said Gordon, raising a hand instead of saying goodbye.

The next day there were three; Martin didnt show, but instead a neighbour from the fourth floor, a woman called Louise, turned up, wrapped in a bright puffer and giving the group a look like she suspected a cult meeting.

Ill just watch, thanks, she said, without introducing herself.

Watch away, Margaret replied, setting off, not waiting to explain any more rules.

Louise walked beside Gordon in silence at first. By their second loop, a week later, she was grumbling, These groups, I dont approve. Just leads to passing the hat round. If you dont cough up, youre the enemy.

Therell be no collections, said Gordon. I cant stand them either. Ever since my divorce, Im allergic to anything communal fund.

Margaret heard the word divorce but didnt comment. She knew how swiftly someones pain became playground gossipand soon enough, a weapon.

Their walking stuck through repetition. 7:15, they stepped out; by 7:40, back at the entrance. Now and then, one would miss a morning, but they always returned. Emma brought along a small sports bottle and drank while walking, trying not to let her rhythm falter. Gordon once forgot his hat, grumbling through the whole route, but saw it through anyway. Louise kept her distance to begin with, but soon drew closer.

Gradually, this odd practice seeped into the life of the building itself. Margaret began noticing people saying hello more often. Not out of duty, but because, in the brisk air, theyd started their day side by side, without their usual masks.

One evening, coming home tired from the doctors, arms loaded with paperwork, Margaret found Martin at the lift, fiddling with the stubborn button.

Lift stuck? she asked.

No, you just need to press firmly, he replied, and did so. The lift arrived, the light inside still working, the cracked mirror reflecting back their weariness. As they stepped in, Martin added quietly, Thank you, for the walking. Thought I had no company leftbut this is alright.

Margaret simply nodded, feeling a warmth inside that she quickly checked before it turned sentimental. She merely noted: things were a little easier for people, and that was enough.

Small courtesies began to appear naturally. One morning, Gordon spotted Emmas undone shoelace and silently signalled for her to stop. Later, Emma wrote in the chat: Thank you, whoever noticed my lace. Couldve ended up on my face. No names exchanged, but the gratitude was clear.

One day, Louise set down a bag of grit for the icy steps at the entrance.

Not for everyone, she announced, leaving the sack by the wall. Just for me. I dont fancy a broken hip.

Thank you anyway, Margaret replied.

They scattered the salt together, and after Louise brushed her gloves off, she muttered, Well, since you lotre here

The all-caps messages in the group chat became less frequent. Not gone, but less. People still bickered about rubbish and parking, but sometimes someone would type, Lets keep it civil, shall we? We can settle this, and it sounded less like a slogan, more a reminder that normal conversation was still possible.

In late November, trouble sparked again: a flat on the sixth, where a young man named Andrew lived with his dog, started a heavy round of renovation. Drilling, not the first time, but this time well into the evening. The chat exploded instantly: How much longer, Some of us have children! Honestly, have you no shame? Louise chimed in, I know who it is. Hes always like that. Doesnt care.

On the morning walk, Emma moved tensely, every step sharp with pain and annoyance.

Its him, she told them as they passed the school. Sixth floor, right above me. Last night till ten. I lay there afterwards with that drill still echoing in my skull.

Gordon gave a non-committal noise. Legally, he can go till eleven, as long as

I dont want to hear about the law, Emma snapped. Its not about the lawits about respect.

Even Louiseusually sharpwas deadly serious.

He needs to be brought to heel. Otherwise he wont get it. Collect signatures, call the council. Make sure he knows.

Margaret felt their little group, which had felt warm just yesterday, dissolving into the old us-vs-them building lines. She wasnt afraid of the drillingshe was unsettled by how readily people pivoted back to confrontation.

Lets leave signatures for now, she said. Maybe we speak to him first.

Him? Louise actually stopped. Youre serious? Hell just

Hes a person, Margaret said, levelly. Were not a tribunal.

Gordon looked at her thoughtfully. Will you go yourself?

Margaret didnt want to. She wished the row would sort itself out. But she saw how, if they threw him to the wolves now, the morning walks would turn into another venue for grievances and collapse completely.

Ill talk to him, she said. But I need one person with me. Not a lynch mob.

Gordon nodded. Ill come.

That evening, they went up to the sixth. Margaret had messaged Andrew in private: Could I have a quick word? Margaret from the building. He replied, Of course, Im home.

Outside his door were tied-up bags of building rubbishneat enough, not a mess or performance, just a temporary stash. Margaret knocked. The drill was silent.

Andrew answered, in a t-shirt, arms faintly dusty. His dog, a medium-sized ginger thing, peeked out then retreated.

Hello, he said, wary. Is everything alright?

Were not here for a row, Margaret said, feeling foolish at how that sounded, but unable to find another phrase. Its about the work.

Gordon stood quietly by.

I try to finish by nine, Andrew hurried to explain. But the builders cant do days, so I have to do it myself after work. Im trying to get it done.

We understand, Margaret assured him. But the woman above youEmmashe has back trouble, she needs her rest. And ten oclock is hard for people.

Andrew exhaled.

I didnt know about the back. I thoughtwell, its always the same: people type in the chat, but never say it to your face.

Margaret felt a sting of guiltface-to-face confrontation was the rarest thing here.

Look, she said, could you tell us in advance if you absolutely have to go late one evening? Otherwise, just aim to finish earlysame with taking rubbish down. Not the middle of the night, please.

Andrew eyed the bags. Ill take them to the tip tomorrow morning, he promised. Dont want to leave junk aroundjust got late tonight.

Alright, said Gordon. And timing?

Andrew scratched his head. I can stop by nine, maybe 9:30 on a push. If I need to run lateone night a week maxIll post in the chat first.

Margaret nodded. One more thing: your dogs alright, but at night when she barks

Andrew flushed. Thats when Im outshe gets anxious. Ill get her a toy or something. If theres a problem, tell me, not the group chat straight away, yeah?

They left, and on the stairs, Gordon murmured, Hes fine. Just youngand alone.

Were all lonely in our ways, here, Margaret replied, a little surprised to realise shed said it out loud.

The following day, Andrew posted in the chat: Renovations until 9pm tonight. If I need to go later, Ill let you know. Rubbish will be gone by morning. Some neighbours reacted, some ignored him. Louise wrote: Well see. But there was no shouting.

At the morning walk, Louise arrived, stony-faced. Well? she demanded, Did you talk?

We did, said Margaret. He agreed to finish by nine and keep us posted.

Thats it? Louise clearly expected to be vindicated, that her way was right.

Thats it, Margaret said. Were not looking to win, are we?

Louise snorted but carried on. After a few minutes she muttered, not looking over, Alright then. If he makes a racket, Ill still post.

Of course, Margaret said calmly. Just let him know first.

Emma was beside her and quietly said, Thank you for not feeding the witch hunt. I couldnt have handled that as well.

Margaret felt a lump in her throat that vanished only with a cold breath of air.

After a week, Martin stopped coming. Margaret saw him at the post-boxes.

Youve disappeared, she said.

Knee, he answered simply. Doctor said rest it.

Shame, said Margaret.

I still see you all. You walk byI open my window. Feels like Im part of it still.

It was both funny and oddly touching.

By New Year, the morning walks were routine for three: Margaret, Emma, and Gordon. Louise came on and off, sometimes missing a week, always checking if the strange little tradition was still being kept up. Andrew joined them a couple of times, drained from the building workhe walked silently, savouring the crunch of frost, always slipping off first.

The building didnt become perfect. Rubbish bags still cropped up in the wrong spot, cars were still left skewed in the car park, and the old tensions sometimes flared. But now Margaret felt there was something elsean undercurrent, a memory that things could be done differently.

In January, on a quiet weekday, she stepped outside at 7:14. Gordon was already at the steps, zipping his coat. He raised his head.

Morning, Mrs Hillier.

Morning, Gordon.

Emma shuffled out carefully, heels testing the gritted stone. Hello. Backs holding out today, she said with a smile, as if that alone was a win.

Louise appeared, bleary-eyed, her usual bitterness absent. Ill joinbut no talking about the chat, alright? she grumbled.

Deal, said Margaret.

Off they went. Their footsteps found a rhythmnot perfect, but steady. At the corner, Gordon steadied Emma as she nearly slipped, so naturally that nobody uttered a word of thanks.

When they got back, Andrew was by the door with his dog on a lead. He nodded. Morning. Ill head out latergot work. But thanks for coming to me that time.

Margaret nodded. We live here, after all, she said.

It wasnt a motto. It was just the simple trutha truth that, at last, no longer had to be a cause for war.