A Haunting Foreboding

Oliver lived in a ninestorey council block where the plaster was as thin as tissue paper and any neighbours sneeze reverberated through the heating pipes.

He hadnt been startled by slammed doors, hadnt reacted to arguments about rearranging furniture, and never heard the old lady down the hallways television blare.

What the man upstairs a certain Andrew did, however, drove him to mutter curses.

Every Saturday that troublesome fellow would fire up a drill or a hammer drill without a hint of remorse. Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven, but always on a day off, and always just when Oliver was trying to catch a few extra hours of sleep.

At first Oliver, a quietly decent sort of fellow, tried to be philosophical: Maybe its just a renovation thats taking longer I can understand he thought, tossing from side to side in bed, pulling his pillow over his head.

Weeks passed and the whir of the hammer drill woke him again and again on Saturday mornings, in short bursts or long, droning screeches. It seemed the neighbour would start a job, abandon it, then pick it up again.

Occasionally the aggravating noise fell not only in the morning but also midweek, around seven oclock in the evening, when Oliver returned from work longing for peace. Each time he wanted to rise and tell the neighbour exactly what he thought, but fatigue, laziness, and a simple aversion to conflict kept him silent.

One Saturday, when the drill roared over his head yet again, Oliver finally snapped. He bolted upstairs, rang the bell and knocked, but only the relentless hammer drill answered, its vibrations pounding his skull.

When I get! he shouted, the rest of the sentence lost. He didnt even know what when he meant.

His mind ran through possibilities: cutting the power to the whole landing, filing a formal complaint, calling the local constable, even plugging the hallway ventilation with foam.

He imagined Andrew finally realising hed become a nuisance and apologising, or moving out, or anything, just to stop the drilling.

The sound turned into a symbol of unfairness. Oliver kept thinking, Someone should be angry enough to stop this madness! Yet everyone else stayed in their own flats, untouched.

Then something Oliver never expected happened

***

One Saturday he awoke not to the drill but to a deep, heavy silence. He lay still, straining to hear if the cursed machine would screech again. The quiet was almost tangible.

Broken! a bright thought flashed through his mind, or has the monster gone?

The day unfolded with a strange sense of freedom. The vacuum cleaner ran softer, the kettle seemed gentle, and the television no longer vibrated the ceiling.

Oliver sat on the couch and caught himself smiling, a smile as wide as a childs.

***

Sunday was quiet. So was Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. The noise had been sliced out of his life for almost a week. The hush felt uncanny, a stark contrast after months of constant clatter.

He stood before Andrews door for a long time, gathering courage. What did he want? To be sure everything was alright? To prove he wasnt imagining things?

He pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost at once, and Oliver sensed something was wrong. A pregnant woman stood on the landing, her face pale and eyes swollen. Hed seen her a couple of times before, but now she looked older, as if shed aged years in a heartbeat.

You Andrews wife? he asked gently.

She nodded.

What happened? I I havent heard any

The words lodged in his throat. How could he even begin to explain that hed come because of the silence?

She stepped back, letting him in. Then, in a quiet voice, she said:

Lyle isnt here any more.

Oliver stared, trying to piece the meaning together. It took a few seconds for the sentence to settle.

When? he asked.

Last Saturday, early morning, she whispered, wiping a tear. You know the endless repairs he was exhausted. He always did the work on weekends because he had no time during the week. That morning he got up before me to finish the babys cot. He was in a hurry, afraid hed miss the deadline

She gestured toward the flat. By the wall lay a neatly arranged halfbuilt cot, its instruction sheets, screws and fittings scattered on the floor.

He simply fell, she murmured. His heart gave out. I didnt even get a chance to wake up.

Oliver stood rooted, as if the floor had become part of the wall. The womans words sank slowly, heavy, into his mind.

***

The same drilllike noise that had once driven him mad now seemed a cruel reminder. Olivers gaze fell on the box of cot parts: tiny screws, an Allen key, stickers with part numbersall laid out with the care only someone who truly wanted something to work would show.

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

Thank you. No

He left almost on tiptoe, as if walking away from fresh pain.

He descended the stairs, each step echoing a dull guilt that had no shape but scorched him inside.

***

Back in his flat, he looked up at the ceiling. The silence pressed thickly around him, as if it were accusing him of something. Perhaps it was accusing him of hating Andrew only because the man had ruined his sleep? He had cursed him, reduced him to a nuisance, a sound, an inconvenience.

Now Andrew was gone, but a woman was left grieving, a child about to be born without a father, and a cot that hed never gotten to finish.

He thought, I should visit her offer to help. She wont do it alone.

***

That evening, after his thoughts settled, Oliver went back upstairs and rang the buzzer again. The door opened, the woman raising an eyebrow in surprise she hadnt been expecting him.

Slightly embarrassed, Oliver 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 Id like to help, if thats alright.

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

Come in.

Oliver entered, stepping carefully over the scattered parts. He worked in silence for a long while, fitting the pieces together.

The woman sat on the sofa, hand on her belly, occasionally sighing softly, careful not to disturb the quiet. When Oliver tightened the final screw and adjusted the back of the cot, the air in the room seemed to lift, as if a weight had been released.

She moved closer, running her palm over the smooth wooden rail.

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

Oliver could only nod, speech failing him.

As he left, he felt for the first time in years that he had done something truly right, and he sensed that he would return to this building, not as a resentful neighbour, but as someone who understood that the quiet after a storm is a chance to rebuild, not to blame. The lesson lingered: patience and compassion turn the clamor of conflict into the hum of shared humanity.