No Further Action Required

Unit 3A, across the hall

I’ve lived here a long time. Long enough to know which sounds belong. Pipes hammer. Someone knocks a glass off a table. Men and women argue, make up, then start fighting again. That’s the price you pay for proximity. Thin walls.

Sleep comes in pieces for me. Always has.

The footsteps were typical. They came down the hallway late, every single time. I’d wake and listen to them slow outside my door, then continue on. Stepping out for a vape, maybe. Or walking. Some people do that when they can’t sleep. It was a reassurance that someone else was up.

After Christmas, the steps changed.

The footsteps no longer slowed at my door. They just kept going. Straight toward the stairs. Night after night.

I peeked once. Opened the door. The hall was empty.

The footsteps kept going, right on time.

Unit 2A, interior

The radiators click at night. Not very loud. Just something you hear if you’re still awake.

Mine used to kick on every few minutes. Run for a bit. Shut off. Start again. I never kept track. You get used to it.

After Christmas, it ran longer. Didn’t cut out. The room stayed warm into the morning instead of cooling down.

I mentioned it once to the guy upstairs. Just in passing. He shrugged and said maybe the boiler had finally been serviced.

That sounded right to me.

A few days later, the clicking stopped. The room stayed warm anyway.

Unit 3D, next door

I was only here to see my sister. I don’t know this building. I don’t know what’s normal here.

The room on the other side of the bedroom wall was supposed to be empty. She’d mentioned it earlier, offhand, the way you do when you’re listing annoyances. A sticky front door. Weird plumbing. One unit with no tenant.

I heard a chair scrape back. A cupboard opening and closing. Footsteps. Short bursts. Stop. Start. Like someone not pacing. Doing things.

I asked my sister what that was. She said no one lived in that room. Said it quickly, like it wasn’t worth checking.

So we stood there for a minute. I didn’t want to push it. It’s her place, not mine.

Then I heard keys. Not loud. Careful.

Email from Building Management to Tenants

We have received several inquiries regarding noise and odor complaints associated with Unit 3B.

We can inform you that there has been no change in tenancy. There has been an inspection by maintenance of surrounding units and common systems. No plumbing, ventilation or electrical problems were reported.

At this time, no further action is required.

Thank you for your patience during the holiday period.

Unit 1B, retired

I wake up early. Always did. When you don’t have someplace to be, you take the hours for yourself.

Lights are the easiest thing to notice. They’re supposed to go off in a certain order. Kitchen first. Then the living room. Bedroom last. Same as breathing. You don’t think about it until it’s wrong.

That’s how it had been in that apartment. Every night. Like clockwork.

After Christmas, the lights stayed on longer. Past midnight.

I figured someone had passed out on the couch.

Then one night all the lights went out.

Not room by room. All at once.

They didn’t come back on.

The next morning, there was a knock.

It lasted longer than it should have.

I stood where I was and waited for it to stop.

It did.

In the hallway, there was a cup of coffee. Still warm enough to smell.

Building Superintendent

On the 27th, I completed a welfare check. Knocked. Announced myself. Waited.

The door was locked. No signs of forced entry. Lock intact. Hinges solid.

Utilities were paid up to date. Heat cycling as normal. Water pressure average. Nothing backed up.

Rent paid as scheduled. No flags. No hold-ups.

No forwarding address. No emergency contact listed. Not unusual.

Mail was stacking up. Holiday cards. A package from a bookstore. Nothing perishable. Nothing urgent.

I called it in, documented the visit, and closed the ticket.

I can’t enter without justification.

No justification noted.

Unit 5C, top floor

The bins are shared. Cardboard on Tuesdays. Glass whenever it gets full. The schedule is posted by the door, laminated, which tells you how seriously it’s meant to be taken.

For a while, the blue bin was half full by the time I got to it. Coffee grounds. Burnt toast. The same cereal boxes, folded flat the way they’re supposed to be.

Then there were weeks when it wasn’t. The lid closed easily. The bin rolled back against the wall without a fight. I checked the date once, just to be sure I hadn’t missed a pickup.

The contents changed over time. New packaging. Different labels. Still folded flat, as they should be. Whoever it was understood the rules.

Pickup stayed on schedule. The bins were returned to their slots, lined up again, wheels locked.

By the following Tuesday, the blue bin was half full again.

Unit 3A, follow up

The vent is cold now.

Unit 4A, New Year’s Eve

Friends over. Nothing wild. Music turned low. Kids in pajamas. Plastic cups sweating on the coffee table. The countdown on television.

I heard another countdown through the wall. It wasn’t synchronized with ours. Ours was ahead. The other voice came slower. Careful. Counting like it mattered.

It stopped at three. Our countdown kept going. Someone yelled. Someone spilled a drink.

At midnight, it went quiet everywhere.

Building Management Log

December 26: Noise complaints logged. Source undetermined.

December 27: Tenant unresponsive to contact attempts. Status unchanged.

December 31: No incidents reported after 11:59 p.m.

January 2: No further complaints received.

Unlabeled

The notices do not reach me.

They slip under the door across the hall. Plain envelopes. Emails routed to a different address. Messages left on an answering machine I can hear through the wall, muffled and courteous.

Noise complaints resolved.

Odor issue noted.

No further action required.

From the wall, I hear life continuing. Footsteps at three. A chair scraping back. A cabinet door that never quite closes unless you push it twice. Coffee at 6:45. Toast a shade too dark.

I sit in an apartment that isn’t mine. The couch sags in the wrong places. The windows face the alley.

In the hall, the lock turns. Keys drop into a bowl. The sound is familiar.

A notice slips halfway under the door before it’s pulled inside. I see only the corner of it.

My name is printed cleanly. Spelled right.

If someone knocked, I wouldn’t know what to say.

I don’t knock.

3:00 comes back around.