Hey, so picture this: Oliver lives in a drab council block on the edge of Manchester, the sort of ninestorey brick tower where the walls are thinner than a newspaper and every sneeze from the flat next door rattles the radiators.
Hes used to the usual flatlife noises doors slamming, neighbours arguing about moving furniture, the old lady downstairs blasting her telly at full volume. None of that gets under his skin. But the guy upstairs, a bloke called Andrew, is a different story. Every Saturday, without a hint of remorse, he starts whacking something with a drill or a demolition hammer.
Sometimes its at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven always on the weekend, always right when Olivers trying to sleep in. At first Oliver is the sort of easygoing type, thinking maybe theyre doing some renovations, itll finish soon as he rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head.
Weeks go by and the hammer keeps waking him up, sometimes in short bursts, sometimes in long, grating drags. Andrew seems to start a project, ditch it, then pick it back up again. And its not just Saturdays sometimes the awful buzzing pops up on a weekday around seven, just as Oliver gets home, dreaming of a quiet evening. Every time he wants to march up and tell Andrew off, something holds him back tiredness, laziness, or a plainold reluctance to start a fight.
One Saturday the drill is screaming right over his head again and Oliver finally loses it. He darts up the stairs, bangs on the door, but gets no answer. The hammer roars on, shaking his skull.
When I get my! he starts, but the words die in his throat. He doesnt even know what hed say next. He imagines all sorts of payback: cutting the power to the whole landing, filing a complaint, calling the local constable, even clogging the ventilation with foam.
Sometimes he picture Andrew realising hes a nuisance, apologising, moving out, or anything really, just to stop the drilling. The noise has become, for Oliver, a symbol of everything unfair. He keeps thinking, Someone should speak up and put an end to this madness! Yet everyone stays in their own little world.
Then, out of the blue, something happens that Oliver never saw coming
One Saturday morning he wakes up not to the hammer but to pure, heavy silence. He lies there, listening, waiting for the familiar whine, but the flat is oddly still. Did he finally break it? Or has the bloke moved out? a small grin slips across Olivers face.
The whole day feels oddly free. The vacuum runs softer, the kettle seems almost friendly, and the TV doesnt vibrate the whole ceiling. Olivers sitting on his sofa, smiling like a kid who just found a secret garden.
Sunday is quiet, Monday is quiet, Tuesday, Wednesday the noise has been cut out of his life for almost a week. Its not just a repair or a holiday; the stillness feels a little too neat, a little unsettling after months of constant clatter.
He stands in front of Andrews flat, hand on the intercom button, trying to work out why he even wants to knock. To check that everythings okay? Or to prove to himself hes not just overreacting?
He presses the bell. The door swings open almost instantly and Oliver knows straight away somethings wrong. Standing there is a heavily pregnant woman, her face pale, eyes swollen. Hed only seen her a couple of times before, but now she looks older, worn.
You Andrews wife? Oliver asks cautiously.
She nods.
What happened? I I havent heard any noise for ages
His words choke. How do you even start a conversation about a silence?
She steps aside, letting him in, and then, in a soft voice, says:
Lesh theres no more.
Oliver doesnt get it at first. It takes a few seconds for the meaning to settle.
When when?
Last Saturday, early morning, she wipes a tear. You know, the endless weekend repairs He was exhausted. He always did everything on Saturdays because weekdays were too busy. That morning he got up before me, trying to finish the babys cot. He was in a rush, scared hed run out of time
She gestures toward the back of the flat. By the wall lies a halfassembled baby cot, its instruction booklet, packets of screws and fittings scattered on the floor.
He just fell, she whispers. His heart gave out. I didnt even have time to wake up.
Oliver stands there, rooted to the spot. The womans words sink slow and heavy into his mind.
The dreaded drilling noise that had haunted his weekends is suddenly gone, but the silence now carries a weight. Olivers eyes fall on the box of cot parts tiny screws, a hex key, stickers with part numbers, all neatly laid out. Only people who truly care about something will keep everything so tidy.
Do you need any help? he asks quietly, but she shakes her head.
Thanks, but no, she replies.
He slips out on tiptoes, the way you retreat from someones fresh wound. Down the stairs, each step feels like a dull thud of guilt, without a shape, but it burns all the same.
Back home, he looks up at the ceiling. The silence is thick, almost oppressive, as if its pointing a finger at something. Maybe its at the fact that Oliver hated Andrew simply because he kept him awake? Hed cursed him, turned him into a noise, not a person. And now
Now the noise is gone, but theres a woman mourning a father wholl never be there, a baby on the way, and a cot that never got finished.
Maybe I should go to his wife, Oliver thinks. Help her. She probably cant do it alone
That evening, after his thoughts settle, Oliver feels a sudden urge to try again. He goes back up, rings the bell. The door opens, the woman lifts an eyebrow in surprise she wasnt expecting him.
Looking a little embarrassed, Oliver says, Look, I know we barely know each other, but if youd let me I can put the cot together. He wanted it ready, and if its alright, Id like to help.
She doesnt say anything at first, just watches him, trying to grasp what he means. After a long pause she nods slowly.
Come in.
Oliver steps over the boxes of parts, works in silence for a good while. The woman sits on the couch, hand on her round belly, quietly sobbing now and then, careful not to disturb him. When he finally tightens the last screw and lifts the cot into place, the room feels different, as if a tension has eased.
She leans forward, runs her hand along the smooth wooden rail and whispers, Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.
Oliver just nods, a bit speechless. As he heads for the door, he realises that for the first time in ages hes done something genuinely right, and he feels oddly certain hell be back again.
