A Foreboding Sense of Anticipation

Oliver Green lived in a tenstorey council tower where the walls were thinner than a birthday card and every neighbours sneeze bounced off the radiators.

Hed stopped flinching at slammed doors, ignored the occasional furnituremoving ruckus and never bothered with the TV that screamed from the flat downstairs.

But the antics of the bloke above a certain Albert Brown were another matter; they made Olivers blood boil and his mouth fill with colourful curses.

Every Saturday, without a hint of remorse, the troublesome chap would unleash either a drill or a hammerdrill. Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven. Always on a day off, and always just when Oliver was desperate to catch a few extra winks.

At first Oliver, a fairly uncomplaining sort, tried to be philosophical: Maybe its just a longterm renovation I can understand, he thought, turning in bed and tucking his head under the pillow.

Weeks slipped by and the percussive whine kept waking him on Saturday after Saturday, alternating between short bursts and endless, droning screeches. It was as if Albert started a project, abandoned it, then went back to it again.

Occasionally the assault didnt limit itself to the mornings. Around seven in the evening, after a full days work, Oliver would arrive home dreaming of quiet. Each time he wanted to march upstairs and tell Albert exactly what he thought of the racket, but fatigue, laziness or a simple aversion to conflict held him back.

One Saturday, when the drill roared overhead yet again, Oliver finally snapped. He raced up the stairs, rang the bell, pounded on the door only to be met with silence. The cursed drill kept roaring, vibrating straight into his skull.

When the day comes, Ill! he blurted, cutting himself off. He didnt even know what the day would bring.

His mind ran through a catalogue of revenge: cutting the power to the whole landing, calling the landlord, even more elaborate schemes like filing a complaint, summoning the local constable, or clogging the ventilation with foam.

Sometimes he imagined Albert suddenly realising how annoying he was, coming down to apologise, moving out, or simply doing anything to stop the drilling.

Just the thought of the relentless noise had become a symbol of injustice. Oliver kept thinking, If only someone in the building would have a fit and put an end to this nonsense! Yet everyone stayed in their own flats, minding their own business.

Then something completely unexpected happened.

One Saturday morning Oliver awoke not to the usual drill, but to a deep, comforting silence. He lay there, ears straining for the next burst of metal, but the quiet was thick, almost tangible.

Did he finally break it? Or has the menace moved on? he thought with a grin. The day passed with an odd sense of freedom: the vacuum hummed softly, the kettle seemed gentle, and the television no longer vibrated the ceiling.

Oliver sat on his sofa, a genuine smile spreading across his face, as wide as a childs.

Sunday was quiet, as was Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. The noise had been sliced out of his life like a bad haircut. The silence lingered for nearly a week, and Oliver stopped blaming it on a renovation, a holiday or a fluke. The contrast after months of constant clatter felt unsettling, almost eerie.

He stood at Alberts door for a long time, gathering courage, wondering why he wanted to go up. To check that everything was alright? Or perhaps to prove to himself that he wasnt just a nervous wreck?

He pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost instantly, and Oliver instantly sensed something was off. On the landing stood a heavily pregnant woman, her face pale, eyes puffy. Hed seen her a couple of times before, but now she looked older, as if time had rushed her forward.

Are you Alberts wife? Oliver asked cautiously.

She nodded.

What happened? I I havent heard

His throat tightened; the words got stuck. How could he explain that hed come because of the silence?

She stepped back, letting him in. Then, in a hushed voice, she whispered, Leslie isnt here anymore.

Oliver blinked, trying to piece it together. After a few seconds the meaning clicked.

When when? he asked.

Last Saturday, early morning, she sniffed, wiping away a tear. You know, that endless weekend renovation He was exhausted. He always worked on Saturdays because weekdays were a blur. That day he got up before me wanted to finish the babys crib. He was in a rush, scared hed run out of time

She gestured toward the far side of the flat. Against the wall stood a halfassembled childrens crib, its instruction manual, packs of screws and fittings scattered on the floor.

He just fell, she whispered. My heart stopped. I didnt even get a chance to wake up properly.

Oliver stood there, rooted to the spot, as the womans words sank slowly, heavily, into his consciousness.

The dreaded noise

The same drill that had so often riled him, now seemed a distant memory. Olivers eyes fell on the box of crib parts: tiny screws, an Allen key, labels with part numbers, all meticulously laid out the sort of careful arrangement only someone who truly cared would make.

Do you need any help? he asked softly, but the woman shook her head.

Thank you, but Ive got it, she replied.

He left on tiptoes, as if stepping away from fresh grief. Each step down the stairs felt weighted with a vague, nameless guilt that burned quietly.

Back in his flat, he stared at the ceiling. The silence was dense, almost oppressive, as if it were chastising him for his earlier hatred of Albert. Hed despised the man simply because his noise kept Oliver from sleeping. To Oliver, Albert had become nothing more than an irritant, a piece of unwanted sound.

Now Albert was gone.

Instead there was a woman mourning him, a baby on the way with no father, and a crib that Albert never managed to finish. Oliver thought, Maybe I should go back, help her. She probably cant do it alone.

That evening, after his thoughts settled, Oliver climbed the stairs again and rang the bell. The door opened and the woman raised an amused eyebrow she certainly hadnt been expecting him.

Looking a little embarrassed, Oliver said quietly, I know we barely know each other, but if youd let me I could finish the crib. He wanted it ready, after all. And if its okay with you, Id like to help.

She stared at him for a moment, as if weighing his words, then gave a slow nod.

Come in, she said.

Oliver slipped inside, stepping carefully over the boxes of parts. He worked in silence, fitting screws, tightening bolts, the hum of the vacuum in the next flat the only background noise.

The woman sat on the sofa, hand resting on her belly, occasionally letting out a soft sigh, careful not to disturb the quiet. When Oliver finally clamped the last screw and lifted the crib into place, the atmosphere in the room shifted, as if a small tension had been released.

She rose, walked over, and brushed a palm along the smooth wooden slat.

Thank you, she whispered. You have no idea how much this means.

Oliver simply nodded, unsure what else to say. As he turned to leave, he felt, for the first time in ages, that hed done something genuinely right, and he sensed hed return to this flat again not for the drill, but for a different kind of purpose.