*Beyond the Wall, Not Silence*
“Turn that ruddy telly down, will you?” hollered Margaret Wilkins, thumping the wall with her fist. “People are trying to sleep, for heaven’s sake!”
In response, the music from next door roared even louder, as if the entire London Symphony Orchestra had squeezed into the flat for an impromptu midnight concert.
“Mum, don’t get worked up,” sighed Emily, peeking out from the kitchen with a cuppa in hand. “Just talk to them properly tomorrow, yeah?”
“Properly?” Margaret turned to her daughter, eyes flashing with indignation. “I’ve been ‘talking properly’ for a month now! They’re either stone deaf or just pretending!”
Another thud rattled the wall, followed by blokes’ laughter and the thump of heavy boots. Margaret clutched her chest dramatically.
“Lord above, what is this? Mrs. Thompson used to live there, God rest her soul—peaceful as a Sunday morning. But now?”
Emily set her mug on the windowsill and sighed. “Mum, come off it. They’re young. They want a bit of fun. Remember when me and Tom used to tear about the flat as kids?”
“That was in the day! And you were children! These are grown men acting like toddlers!”
The music suddenly cut out, leaving only the tick-tock of the old kitchen clock and a faint murmur through the wall.
“See?” Emily exhaled in relief. “Maybe they’ve realised they’re being nuisances.”
Famous last words. Moments later, a long, mournful howl split the silence—not human, but animal.
Emily went pale. “What on earth was that?”
“A dog,” Margaret grumbled. “A ruddy great one, by the sound of it.”
The howling rose and fell, as if the poor creature’s soul was being torn apart by sheer misery.
“Mum, what if it’s hurt? Should we check?”
“Check? They don’t care a jot about anyone!” Margaret whacked the wall again. “Keep that beast quiet! Some of us need sleep!”
The response was muffled shouting. The dog paused, then launched into an even louder lament.
Margaret collapsed into her armchair. “Emily, I can’t take it. Night after night—music, telly, now this damned dog. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
Emily perched on the armrest. “Have you called the council’s noise patrol?”
“Course I have! Bloke came round, had a word. They piped down for a day, then right back at it. Says there’s no proof—how d’you prove noise? By the time he gets here, they’re quiet as mice!”
Another crash echoed through the wall—like furniture being dragged. Heavy, deliberate. Scraping, thudding, scraping again.
“Moving furniture at one in the morning,” Margaret muttered. “Who does that?”
“Mum… what if something’s actually wrong? What if they’re not just being inconsiderate?”
“Emily, are you defending them?”
“No! Just—remember what Gran said about old Mr. Harris? He used to make a racket at night, turned out he had dementia. Didn’t know what he was doing.”
Margaret frowned. The noise *was* odd—not just rowdy, but erratic. Almost unnatural.
“Right,” she declared, standing. “I’m going over. Getting to the bottom of this.”
“Mum, it’s one in the morning!”
“And they’re not sleeping, are they?”
She threw on her dressing gown, shoved her feet into slippers, and marched to the neighbour’s door. Number 38—no different from the others, save for the number half-peeled off, as if someone had tried to disguise it.
The doorbell chimed inside, unanswered. The noise continued—the dog wailed.
“Open up! It’s your neighbour!”
Silence. Then slow, shuffling footsteps.
The door cracked open on the chain. A tired grey eye peered out.
“Yeah?”
“We share a wall. Your music, your dog—people can’t sleep!”
“What music?” The voice sounded genuinely puzzled.
“What d’you mean, *what music*? It’s playing right now!”
And it was—soft, melancholy, but unmistakably there.
“Can’t hear anything,” the man said.
Margaret gaped. “But—it’s *there*!”
“Ma’am, you feeling alright? Need us to ring a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine! And my hearing’s spot on!”
The door shut. Margaret stood there, listening. The music played on—stranger now, as if drifting through time itself.
Back inside, Emily had her ear pressed to the wall.
“Well?”
“It’s… odd. I hear music, but it’s—well, it’s like an old gramophone. Crackly, vintage.”
“A gramophone? Who even owns those anymore?”
“No idea. And… voices. A man and woman. Talking, but I can’t make out the words.”
Margaret pressed her ear to the wall. Sure enough—an old song, the kind they played when she was young. And between verses, murmurs of affection.
“Maybe they’re watching some period drama?” Emily ventured.
“At this hour? And why’d he claim he couldn’t hear it?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s deaf?”
They listened. The song ended; another began. Even older. The voices softened to whispers.
“Mum… remember what Gran said about that flat?”
“What about it?”
“That a young couple lived there during the war. Deeply in love. He went off to fight and never came back. She waited for him her whole life.”
Margaret shivered.
“Emily, don’t be daft.”
“Gran swore Mrs. Thompson told her. That woman kept playing their old records—their songs—right up ‘til she died.”
“And you’re saying what, exactly?”
“What if… what if the noise isn’t from the new neighbours?”
Margaret stepped back. “Stop it. You’re imagining things.”
But the music played on. Vintage love songs. Voices—young, joyful. They sang together, laughed, whispered.
Slowly, Margaret’s anger faded. The sounds weren’t grating—they were hauntingly beautiful. Like eavesdropping on a love story lost to time.
When Emily came home from work the next evening, Margaret was sitting by the wall, tears in her eyes.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love. Just… listening.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. But they adore each other. Hear how he sings to her? And how she answers? They’re happy.”
Emily sat beside her. A lullaby drifted through the wall, tender and sweet.
“Mum… what if it really *is* them? From Gran’s story? What if they’re still here? Together?”
Margaret wiped her eyes. “Maybe it doesn’t matter who it is. Maybe the point is they’re not alone. They’re in love. And we… we just get to hear it.”
From then on, Margaret never complained about the noise. Every evening, she’d sit and listen—songs, laughter, whispers. Sometimes just silence, thick with love.
Emily did too. They never spoke of what it might be. Some things don’t need explaining.
Then, one night—nothing. Pure silence.
“Gone, d’you think?” Emily asked.
“Maybe.”
The next day, a young man signed the lease for No. 38.
“Thank goodness,” the concierge said. “Margaret’s been going on about people living there for weeks!”
He moved in, brought furniture, a telly. But his flat stayed quiet. No music. No voices.
Margaret missed the evening serenades. She’d realised something—there *hadn’t* been silence through that wall. There’d been love, echoing across decades, untouched by time.
“You think they just… left?” Emily asked one evening. “Found each other somewhere beyond all this?”
Margaret smiled. “Maybe, love. Maybe.”
Now, the wall was just a wall. Ordinary silence. But in her heart, those songs still played—of love that even death couldn’t dim.
