**Diary Entry: The Lady from Flat Twenty-Three**
Sometimes, sitting here in this care home, I find myself thinking back—about how life used to be. There was an old woman in our building, from flat twenty-three. No one cared much for her, to be honest. Hardly anyone even knew her name. She was just… there.
She was tiny, grey-haired, with thick glasses held together by sticky tape—filthy and worn. She shuffled about in scuffed shoes, her old shopping bag clutched in one hand, while her little dog, a yappy thing no bigger than a loaf of bread, trotted beside her. That dog barked at anyone who came near her door, and visitors weren’t rare. The neighbours had three main grievances.
First, the telly. Blaring from morning till night, loud enough to rattle the walls. Second, the cockroaches, spilling out from her flat into the stairwell. And third, that musty, sour smell clinging to everything—even the lift reeked of it.
People complained, of course. They’d knock, demand to know when she’d sort it out. She’d just squint up at them with that faint, childlike smile and murmur, *”Soon, soon…”* Things would quieten for a bit. But never for long.
Her name was Edith Wilson. Eighty-four years old. Last winter, she caught a nasty cold—left her half-deaf. She wanted a hearing aid, but the waitlist was miles long, and her pension barely covered the bills, let alone medicine or treats for her little dog, Buster.
Ah, Buster. Her only real companion. He’d turned up years ago, after her husband passed and the children drifted away. She’d found him in the rain, a shivering pup by a dumpster. Meant to walk on by—she could hardly look after herself—but he followed her home. Stayed ever since.
That flat… It was like something out of a horror film. Stained walls, that clinging stench, cockroaches skittering underfoot. Edith either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The neighbours gave up complaining—what was the use?
Then Sarah moved in. Newly divorced, with a young son, Jamie. She’d signed the lease in relief, ignoring the smell at first. But when she saw two roaches scuttling across her kitchen counter, she nearly screamed. That’s when Mrs. Carter from downstairs told her about Edith—the telly, the bugs, the loneliness. Something clicked.
Sarah started dropping by. Bringing groceries, playing with Buster. Jamie would sit with Edith, listening to her stories. Slowly, the smell faded. The telly volume dropped. The cockroaches vanished.
Of course, whispers started—*Sarah’s after the flat*—but she didn’t care. What mattered was Edith wasn’t alone anymore.
Nearly a year passed. Then one day, Edith slipped away quietly, just as she’d lived. No fuss. Buster stayed with Sarah and Jamie—family now, properly.
Funny, isn’t it? Life’s cruel sometimes. But even in the forgotten corners, little miracles happen. Someone comes along, offers a bit of kindness. And just like that, the world feels warmer. That’s the real magic, I suppose.
