Oliver Green lived in a ninestorey council block where the walls were as thin as tissue paper and a neighbours sneeze reverberated through the radiators like a distant echo.
He had long stopped flinching at slamming doors, ignored the endless quarrels over rearranged furniture, and never gave a second glance to the shrill television of the pensioner downstairs.
What the man above himTimothy Blakewas doing, however, grated on Olivers nerves and provoked a torrent of curses.
Every Saturday, that troublesome fellow would, without a hint of remorse, fire up a drill or a hammer drill. Sometimes at ninea.m., sometimes at eleven. Always on the day off, and always just when Oliver had finally managed to crawl back into sleep.
At first Oliver, a man who never liked a stir, tried to be philosophical: Maybe the repairs taking longer I can understand he thought, tossing his body from side to side, the pillow pressed against his forehead.
Weeks passed, yet the drills whine kept jolting him awake on Saturday after Saturday, in short bursts or long, drawnout trills. It seemed the neighbour would start a job, abandon it, then return to it again.
Occasionally the obnoxious clatter spilled over into the week, at about seven in the evening, when Oliver trudged home from work dreaming of quiet. Each time a surge of anger rose within him, urging him to march upstairs and tell the man exactly what he thought, but fatigue, laziness, or the simple desire to avoid a fight held him back.
One Saturday, the drill roared overhead once more and Oliver finally snapped. He burst up the stairs, rang the bell, pounded on the dooronly to be met with a deafening silence. The cursed hammer drill continued to thrash, its vibrations striking straight at his skull.
When the time comes he began, but the words dissolved before he could finish. He didnt even know what the time meant.
His imagination ran wild. He pictured cutting the power to the whole landing, filing a formal complaint, calling the local constable, or even sealing the ventilation with foam. Sometimes he imagined Timothy suddenly realising hed become a nuisance and coming down to apologise, or moving away, oranything at alljust to stop the drilling.
The sound had become, to Oliver, a symbol of injustice. He kept thinking, Someone should be outraged and put an end to this nonsense! Yet everyone stayed in their own little burrows, untouched by the commotion.
Then something he never expected happened
***
One Saturday morning he awoke not to the drills scream but to an eerie stillness. He lay there, ears straining, waiting for the dreaded whine to return. The silence was dense, calm, almost tactile.
Did he finally break down? a delighted thought flickered. Or has the monster moved on?
The day drifted by with an odd sense of liberty. The vacuum whirred softer, the kettle hissed a gentle greeting, and even the televisions bass no longer seemed to shake the ceiling. Oliver sat on the sofa and caught himself smilingbroadly, like a child whod just found a secret garden.
***
Sunday was quiet. Monday too. Tuesday, Wednesdayeach day the noise was as if it had been cut out of his life entirely. The hush from above lingered for nearly a week.
Oliver stopped blaming the lull on repairs, holidays, or sheer luck. There was something unnerving about the abrupt contrast after months of relentless clatter.
He stood for a long time before Timothys flat door, gathering courage, wondering why he even wanted to confront the neighbour. Was it to be sure everything was alright? Or to test his own nerves?
He pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost instantly, and Oliver sensed immediately that something was awry.
On the threshold stood a pregnant woman, her face pallid, eyes swollen. He had only glimpsed her a couple of times before, but now she seemed older, as if years had been pressed onto her skin.
You MrsBlake? he asked cautiously.
She nodded.
What happened? I I havent heard any noise
The words stuck in his throat; how could he explain that he had come because of the silence?
She stepped back, letting him pass. Then a soft voice whispered:
Lesh hes gone.
Olivers mind struggled to catch the meaning. It took a few seconds for the fragments to knit together.
When when? he asked.
Last Saturday, early morning, she said, wiping a tear. You see, the endless repairs they wore him thin. He was always working at the weekendno time during the week. That day he got up before me wanted to finish the babys cot. He was in a hurry, scared hed run out of time
She gestured toward the back of the flat. There, by the wall, lay a halfassembled baby cot, its instruction sheet, packs of bolts and washers scattered on the floor.
He simply fell, she whispered. His heart stopped. I didnt even get a chance to wake up.
Oliver stood, rooted to the spot, as the womans words slowly sank into his consciousness.
***
The sound the very drill that had tormented himwas now a memory. He glanced down at the box of cot parts: tiny screws, a hex key, stickers with part numbers, all laid out with the meticulousness only someone who truly cares can muster.
Do you need any help? Oliver began softly, but the woman shook her head.
No, thank you
He slipped out on tiptoes, as if fleeing from fresh pain. Each step down the stairwell reverberated with a dull, weightless guilt that burned without a shape.
***
Back in his flat, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. The silence was thick, heavy, as if it were a judgement.
Perhaps it was the hatred he felt for Timothynot because the man was evil, but because he stole Olivers sleep? He had cursed him, turned him into nothing more than a nuisance, a clatter. Now the clatter was gone.
But now there was a woman mourning a husband who would never return, a child about to be born without a father, and a cot that Timothy never got to finish.
I should go to MrsBlake, Oliver thought, and help. She probably cant do it alone.
***
That evening, after his thoughts settled, Oliver again stared at the ceilings dead quiet. He lingered in the dim kitchen, realizing he would not be able to fall asleep easily. He went upstairs, rang the buzzer. The door opened, the womans eyebrows lifted in surpriseshe hadnt been expecting him.
Oliver, feeling a blush rise, said quietly:
Listen I know we barely know each other, but if youll let me I can finish the cot. He wanted it ready. And if its alright with you, Id like to help.
She stared at him for a long breath, as if trying to translate his words into something tangible, then slowly nodded.
Come in.
Oliver entered, stepping carefully over the scattered pieces. He worked in silence, the minutes stretching like a slow tide.
The woman sat on the sofa, one hand resting on her belly, the other lightly trembling. Occasionally a soft sob escaped, barely audible. When Oliver finally tightened the last screw and lifted the cots back panel, the room seemed to exhale.
She moved closer, her palm gliding over the smooth wooden rail.
Thank you, she whispered. You cant imagine how much this means.
Oliver stood, unable to find a reply. He simply inclined his head.
As he turned to leave, a quiet certainty settled over him: for the first time in ages, he had done something genuinely right, and he felt, inexplicably, that he would return to this place again.
