A Sense of Foreboding

I awoke in my tenstorey council block on a damp morning in Manchester, the walls as thin as tissue paper, so a neighbours sneeze reverberates through the radiators. Ive long stopped flinching when doors slam, ignored the occasional arguments over swapping furniture, and never bothered to listen to the elderly Mrs. Patels TV blaring from the flat below.

What did bother me, however, was the constant racket coming from the flat directly above mine, where a man called John lived. Every Saturday, without a hint of remorse, John would fire up a drill or a hammer drill, sometimes at nine oclock, sometimes at eleven, always on the weekend precisely when I was trying to catch up on sleep.

At first I tried to be philosophical about it. Maybe its a renovation thats taking longer than expected, I told myself, turning over in bed and pulling my pillow over my head. Weeks passed and the whine of the hammer drill kept waking me up, first in short bursts, then in long, drawnout screeches. It seemed John started a job, abandoned it, then returned to it later, as if the work itself were a game.

Occasionally the aggravating noise intruded not just in the mornings but also around seven in the evening during the week, when I returned from work hoping for a quiet house. Each time I felt the urge to march upstairs and tell John exactly what I thought of his habits, but fatigue, laziness, and a simple desire to avoid conflict held me back.

One Saturday, the drill roared again right above my head. I could no longer stand it and burst up the stairs, rang the doorbell, knocked, and received only the continuing roar of the hammer drill, vibrating straight into my skull.

When the day comes I began, but the words stopped on my tongue. I had no idea what the day might bring.

My imagination ran wild: cutting the power to the whole building, calling the landlord, involving the police, even blocking the ventilation with foam. Sometimes I pictured John realising hed become a nuisance, coming down to apologise, or simply moving out. Anythingjust to make the drilling stop.

The sound became a symbol of injustice for me. I kept thinking, If only someone in this block would get fed up and put an end to this madness! Yet everyone else stayed in their own flats, uninterested.

Then something I could not have anticipated happened.

***

One Saturday I woke not to the drill but to complete silence. I lay there, straining my ears, waiting for that cursed machine to scream again, but the quiet was thick, calm, almost tangible.

Did he finally give up? Or did he move? a small, hopeful thought flitted through my mind.

The whole day felt like a breath of freedom. The vacuum cleaner hummed softly, the kettle sang a gentle whistle, and the televisions thump no longer rattled the ceiling. I found myself smiling on the sofa, a grin as broad as a childs.

***

Sunday was silent, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday followed suit. It was as if the noise had been cut out of my life entirely. The stillness persisted for almost a week, and I stopped blaming it on a repair, a holiday, or a random coincidence. The abrupt contrast after months of constant clatter felt unsettling.

***

One afternoon I stood before Johns flat door, gathering my courage, trying to decide why I wanted to go up there. Was it to confirm everything was alright? To prove I wasnt overreacting? To finally confront the source of my frustration?

I pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost immediately, and I sensed something was wrong. A heavily pregnant woman stood on the landing, her face pale, her eyes swollen. I had seen her a couple of times before, but now she looked older, as if time had taken a shortcut.

Are you Johns wife? I asked cautiously.

She nodded.

Something happened? I I havent heard any noise lately

My throat tightened. How could I possibly explain that Id come because of the silence?

She stepped back, letting me in, and then, in a soft voice, said:

John isnt here any more.

It took me a moment to process the words. When? I managed.

Saturday morning, early. He was up before me, trying to finish a baby cot before the delivery. He was rushing, worried he wouldnt get it done in time. He he fell.

She gestured toward the corner of the flat where, neatly arranged on the floor, lay half of an unfinished cot: a flat-packed instruction sheet, a box of screws, a hex key, and various tiny components.

He just collapsed, she whispered, tears brimming. His heart gave out. I didnt even get a chance to wake up fully.

I stood rooted, as if the floor had turned to cement. Her words sank slowly, heavily, into my mind.

***

The same hammerdrill noise that had driven me mad was gone. I looked down at the box of cot partstiny screws, labelled stickers, a hex keyall laid out with the kind of care only a person who truly wanted something to be right would show.

Do you need any help? I asked quietly, but she shook her head.

Thank you, but nothing

I left the flat as quietly as I could, my steps heavy with a guilt I could not name, a guilt that seemed to press against my chest without taking shape.

***

Back in my own flat, I stared up at the ceiling. The silence hung thick, as if it were accusing me of something. Perhaps it was accusing me of hating John not for who he was, but for the inconvenience his noise caused. To me, he had been nothing more than a nuisance, a background rumour of irritation.

Now he was gone, and a widow sat grieving a husband she would never see again. A baby would be born without a father, and a cot lay halfassembled, waiting for hands that would never finish it.

I ought to go over to her, I thought, and help. She cant possibly do it alone.

***

That evening, after the days thoughts had settled, I climbed the stairs again, rang the buzzer, and was met by the surprised glance of the woman, who had not expected to see me.

I know we barely know each other, I began, a little embarrassed, but if youll let me I could put the cot together. He wanted it ready, and if its alright with you, Id like to help.

She stared at me for a long moment, as if weighing the sincerity of my words, then gave a small nod.

Come in, she said.

I stepped inside, careful not to disturb the boxes of parts. I worked in silence, tightening screws, fitting the wooden slats, and eventually fastening the final bolt. As I lifted the assembled cot into place, the room seemed to exhale a little.

The woman, cradling her growing belly, placed a hand on the smooth wooden rail and whispered, Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.

I could only nod, humbled by the simple gratitude.

Leaving the flat, I felt, for the first time in many months, that I had done something genuinely right. The lesson stuck with me long after the door closed behind me: it is far easier to curse the noise of a problem than to hear the silent pleas of the people behind it. If we stop listening to the clatter and start listening to each other, we may find that the real repair needed is not to the walls, but to our own hearts.