**Diary Entry**
I woke at half past six, as usual. Still dark outside, but my internal clock never fails—forty years now. Pulled on my dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A note was stuck to the fridge with a ladybird magnet. Odd—it hadn’t been there last night.
I plucked it off and flicked on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, shaky, as if written by someone unsteady.
*”Edith, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I’m your neighbour from across the hall—Apartment 12. My name’s Beatrice. I’m dreadfully embarrassed to ask, but might I borrow some sugar? I’ll return it, of course. Yours, Beatrice Whitmore.”*
I frowned. Apartment 12? That’s where the Cartwrights live—a young family with two children. I knew every resident in the building by heart, having been the tenant association chair for a decade.
The kettle whistled. I set the note aside and made breakfast, uneasy. How had this Beatrice gotten inside? And why hadn’t I heard the Cartwrights had moved?
After eating, I dressed and stepped into the corridor. I lingered outside No. 12, listening. Silence. No children’s laughter, no noise—just the faint hum of a telly.
I hesitated, then rang the bell.
*”Who’s there?”* A hoarse woman’s voice.
*”Edith from No. 11. Did you leave a note about sugar?”*
The latch clicked, the door opened a crack on the chain. A wrinkled sliver of face and one wary eye peered out.
*”You’re Edith?”* The woman sounded doubtful.
*”I am. Are you Beatrice?”*
*”Yes, yes. Do come in.”*
The chain unhooked, the door swung wide. Inside, I froze. The flat was entirely different. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just modest, tidy furniture—utterly old-fashioned.
*”Have a seat,”* she said, gesturing to the sofa. *”Would you like tea?”*
*”Thank you, I won’t say no.”*
I studied her. Beatrice looked about seventy, maybe older. Silver hair neatly pinned, deep wrinkles, but bright, attentive eyes.
*”Apologies for the bother,”* she said, fussing with the teapot. *”Ran out of sugar, and popping to the shops is difficult. My knees aren’t what they were.”*
*”No trouble at all. But—where are the Cartwrights? Have they moved?”*
Beatrice stilled, cup in hand.
*”Cartwrights? I don’t know any Cartwrights. I’ve lived here years.”*
*”How many years?”*
*”Oh, fifteen at least. Maybe more.”*
A dizzying wave hit me. Fifteen years? Impossible. I’d seen the Cartwrights just last week—the mother pushing a pram, the older boy racing ahead.
*”Beatrice, how did you put the note on my fridge? My door’s always locked.”*
She blinked, bewildered.
*”Note? What note?”*
*”The one you left. About sugar.”*
*”I didn’t leave any note. Whatever do you mean?”*
I pulled the wretched scrap from my pocket. *”This. With your name.”*
She took it, tracing the words with a finger.
*”Not mine,”* she finally said. *”I didn’t write this.”*
*”But it says Beatrice Whitmore.”*
*”Whitmore’s my name, yes. But I didn’t write it. Perhaps someone’s playing a trick?”*
I was losing my grip. She seemed sincere—but who had written it? And how had it ended up on my fridge?
*”Tell you what,”* I said, standing, *”I’ll fetch the sugar. Keep the note—maybe it’ll jog your memory.”*
*”You’re too kind.”*
Back in my flat, questions multiplied. I filled a jar with sugar and returned.
*”Beatrice, may I ask—do you remember the Cartwrights? A couple with two children. They lived here.”*
She shook her head slowly.
*”No, I don’t. Though… wait. I think someone *did* live here before. But my memory’s not what it was.”*
*”Do you speak with any neighbours?”*
*”Hardly. Everyone’s so busy. Only old Mr. Wilkins from downstairs visits, brings my shopping.”*
I knew Mr. Wilkins. Lived here since the building went up—he’d know.
*”Thank you for the sugar,”* Beatrice said. *”I’ll return it.”*
*”No need. Keep it.”*
I went downstairs and knocked. Mr. Wilkins answered promptly—must’ve been home.
*”Ah, Edith! Come in, come in. Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”No, thank you. Mr. Wilkins—who lives in No. 12?”*
*”Why, Beatrice, of course. Poor thing, quite poorly.”*
*”And the Cartwrights?”*
*”Who?”*
*”The family who lived there before. With children.”*
He studied me closely.
*”Edith, are you feeling alright? There’s never been any Cartwrights here. Beatrice has been in No. 12 twenty years, easy.”*
*”But I *saw* them! Recently!”*
*”Might you be mixing them up with someone else? Age does play tricks, my dear.”*
My legs nearly gave way. Was he right? Had I imagined them?
*”Mr. Wilkins, what’s wrong with Beatrice? You said she’s poorly.”*
*”Ah, dreadful memory, poor soul. Forgets what she’s eaten, even names sometimes. I look in on her, fetch her bits. No family, you see.”*
*”I see,”* I murmured.
Upstairs, I felt utterly lost. The ladybird magnet still clung to the fridge.
All day, my thoughts spun. Fog filled my head. Was this early dementia? Was I confusing things?
That evening, my son James rang.
*”Mum, how are you? Anything new?”*
*”James, be honest—have I been acting strangely lately?”*
*”Strange how?”*
*”Forgetful? Mixing things up?”*
*”No, Mum, you’re fine. What’s happened?”*
I told him about the note and Beatrice. He listened carefully.
*”Mum, maybe Beatrice wrote it during a bad spell? You said her memory’s gone. Could’ve written it and forgotten.”*
*”But how’d she get into my flat?”*
*”Maybe your door was unlocked? Or she asked someone to deliver it?”*
Plausible, I supposed. I relaxed slightly.
Next morning, I checked on Beatrice.
A stranger—a middle-aged man in work clothes—opened the door.
*”Can I help you?”*
*”I’m here for Beatrice. I’m her neighbour.”*
*”Ah. Come in. She’s not well.”*
Inside, Beatrice lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. Pale, glassy-eyed.
*”Beatrice, how are you?”* I whispered.
She turned her head weakly.
*”Who are you?”*
*”Edith, your neighbour. I visited yesterday.”*
*”Don’t remember,”* she breathed, closing her eyes.
The man approached.
*”I’m her nephew,”* he said. *”Came when I heard she’d taken a turn. Taking her home with me.”*
*”What’s wrong?”*
*”Just old age, illness. Memory’s gone, can’t care for herself. Not safe alone in the city.”*
I looked at Beatrice, her laboured breathing.
*”Anything I can do?”*
*”We’ll manage. Taking her tomorrow.”*
I left, heavy-hearted. Poor woman, all alone—now this.
That evening, I knocked again. No answer. Louder.
*”Beatrice! It’s Edith!”*
Silence. I pressed my ear to the door—nothing.
I went downstairs.
*”Mr. Wilkins—Beatrice isn’t answering.”*
*”Gone, she has,”* he said. *”Nephew took her. Saw them carrying her things this morning.”*
*”Gone? But last night he said *tomorrow*.”*
*”Plans change, love.”*
Back home, unease gnawed. Something wasn’t right.
Next morning—another note on the fridge. Different handwriting now, neat, familiar.
*”Mum, coming tomorrow night. Would love your famous roast. Love, James.”*
I smiled. *This* note was real. James always did this—warned me before visits, asked for a mealThe next morning, the ladybird magnet was gone, and the flat across the hall stood empty once more, as if Beatrice had never been there at all.
