A Foreboding Sense: A Journey into the Unknown

Oliver lived in a ninestorey council block where the walls were thinner than a teabag and every neighbours sneeze bounced off the radiators like a bad echo.

Hed long stopped flinching when doors slammed, ignored the occasional furnituremoving scuffle, and never bothered about the crackling television of the pensioner downstairs.

What really got under his skin, however, was the upstairs neighbour a bloke called Andrew whose hobby of weekend renovation made Olivers blood boil and his vocabulary expand in colourful ways.

Every Saturday, the nicetype upstairs would, without a hint of remorse, fire up a drill or a jackhammer. Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven, but always on a day off and always right when Oliver was dreaming of a few extra hours of sleep.

At first Oliver, a fairly uncomplaining sort, tried to be philosophical: Perhaps its just a longterm repair I can understand, he thought, rolling over in bed, pulling his pillow over his head.

Weeks went by and the whirring of the drill kept waking him on Saturdays, in short bursts, in long droning rumbles. It seemed Andrew would start something, abandon it, then pick it up again a few minutes later.

Occasionally the dreaded noise didnt limit itself to the weekend; it would rear its head around seven in the evening on a weekday, just as Oliver trudged home, hoping for peace. Each time he wanted to march up and tell Andrew exactly what he thought of him, but fatigue, laziness, or a plainold aversion to conflict kept him quiet.

One Saturday, when the drill roared once more right over his head, Oliver finally snapped. He bolted up the stairs, rang the bell, pounded on the door only to be met with silence. The jackhammers roar vibrated straight into his skull.

Someday Ill! he shouted, but the words died on his tongue. He hadnt the faintest idea what someday would look like.

His mind drifted to all sorts of schemes: cutting the power to the flats, filing a formal complaint, calling in a constable, even stuffing the ventilation with foam.

Sometimes he imagined Andrew suddenly realising he was a nuisance, coming down to apologise, or moving out, oranything! Just stop the drilling!

The noise had become, to Oliver, a symbol of sheer injustice. He kept thinking, If only someone in the block would get fed up and put an end to this madness! Yet everyone seemed content to stay in their own little burrows.

And then something completely unexpected happened

He awoke one Saturday not to the whine of a drill but to an eerie, almost palpable quiet. He lay there, ears tuned, waiting for the familiar squeal, but the silence was thick, comforting, almost tangible.

Did they finally smash it? Or has the monster moved on? a delighted thought flickered through his mind.

The day unfolded with a strange sense of freedom. The vacuum hummed softer, the kettle sang a gentle whistle, and the televisions bass no longer rattled the ceiling. Oliver found himself smiling on the sofa, grin as wide as a childs.

Sunday was quiet, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday followed suit. It was as if the clamor had been excised from his life entirely. The weeklong hush felt oddly unsettling, a sharp contrast to months of relentless noise.

He stood before Andrews door for what felt like ages, gathering courage. What was he after? Confirmation that everything was alright? Or perhaps proof that his own nerves hadnt been playing tricks on him?

He pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost immediately, and Oliver instantly sensed that something was amiss.

Standing on the landing was a pregnant woman, her face pale, eyes puffy. Oliver had only glimpsed her a couple of times before, but now she looked a few years older, wearied by something deeper than pregnancy.

You Andrews wife? Oliver asked cautiously.

She nodded.

Is everything okay? I I havent heard any noise

The words caught in his throat; how could he possibly explain that his visit was prompted by silence?

She stepped aside, letting him in, and then, in a hushed tone, said:

Lloyd isnt here any more.

Oliver didnt grasp it at once. It took a few seconds for the pieces to click.

When when did it happen?

Last Saturday, early morning, she whispered, wiping a tear. You see, that endless weekend renovation it wore him out. He always worked on Saturdays because weekdays were too busy. That morning he got up before me, wanted to finish the babys crib, was in a rush, feared hed miss the deadline He slipped.

She gestured toward the flat. By the wall lay a halfassembled baby crib, its instruction manual, boxes of screws and fittings strewn neatly on the floor.

He just fell, she murmured. His heart gave out. I barely even had time to wake up.

Oliver stood there, rooted to the spot, as the womans words sank heavy into his mind.

The same noise that had driven him mad now seemed a distant memory. He glanced at the box of crib parts tiny screws, a hex key, stickers with part numbers, all meticulously sorted. Only people who truly cared about something important take such care.

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

Thanks, but no.

He slipped out almost on tiptoe, as if retreating from fresh pain. Each step down the stairwell echoed with a dull, nameless guilt that burned without a clear shape.

Back in his flat, he stared at the ceiling, where the silence hung dense, as if scolding him for something. Perhaps it was because hed hated Andrew solely for ruining his sleep, turning a man into nothing more than an annoying background hum. Now that hum was gone, replaced by a woman mourning a husband who would never return.

A baby was on the way, fatherless already, and a crib that Andrew had intended to build lay unfinished.

I should probably go to his wife offer some help. She wont do it herself, I doubt it, Oliver thought.

That evening, after the thoughts settled, he climbed the stairs again, rang the buzzer. The woman opened the door, eyebrows raised in surprise she hadnt expected him.

Looking a little embarrassed, Oliver said, I know we dont know each other well, but if youd let me, I could finish the crib. He wanted it ready, and well, Id like to help.

She stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing the odd request, then slowly nodded.

Come in.

He entered, careful not to step on the scattered parts, and set to work in quiet silence. The woman sat on the sofa, hand on her belly, occasionally sobbing quietly, trying not to disturb the delicate peace.

When Oliver tightened the final screw and adjusted the backrest, the room seemed to exhale. The woman moved closer, running a hand along the smooth wooden rail.

Thank you, she whispered. You cant imagine how much this means.

Oliver could only offer a small nod. As he left, he felt a rare sense of having done something genuinely right, and a quiet hope that hed find his way back here again.