The woman next door

One day, my neighbor knocked on my door. She looked pale and tired, like a flower bud that never got the chance to bloom and was already withering. In a quiet voice, she asked with a serious face,

“Soo, did you hear any strange noises?”

She’s very thin and moves quietly, almost like a shadow slipping in and out of the building. With her short hair and small, pale face full of worried wrinkles, she always looks tense. When I first moved in, she was the first neighbor to approach me, asking if I needed help or if anything was uncomfortable.

To be honest, I didn’t have many complaints. I’ve lived in much worse conditions before, so I feel grateful and happy with my current situation. I don’t ask others for help. If I don’t know something, I just search it on Google and fix it myself, even if it takes a few mistakes.

Not long after I moved in, she asked if I had heard the dog barking from the building across the street. I said yes, but it wasn’t bad enough to bother me. A little while later, she asked if I could hear the child upstairs jumping and stomping. This is a prewar building, known for strong soundproofing between floors, but she still seemed very sensitive to even the smallest noises. She looked so worn out. Then one day, she knocked again. She asked if I had heard strange sounds like dragging or scraping noises. She looked even thinner and more anxious than before. I listened carefully, but I couldn’t hear anything at all.

Across the hall lives an opera singer. Every morning, she practices her voice at full power. When we run into each other in the elevator, her energy is dramatic. She often compliments my clothes in a high, cheerful voice that rises and falls like she’s on stage. She’s warm, expressive, and easy to talk to. She always leaves her shoes outside her door. On rainy days, there are also umbrellas and boots scattered around.

For someone like me, who likes things neat and in their place, this used to bother me. But then one day, I stopped hearing her sing. Her shoes disappeared too. I felt something was wrong. Later, she returned, walking with a cane. She had been in the hospital for a while. Her shoes were back at the door again. Now, seeing her shoes outside gives me a strange sense of comfort.

When the sensitive neighbor next door doesn’t knock, I worry—Did her nerves finally get too overwhelmed? Is she sick in bed? I find myself listening more closely to her side of the wall.

Sometimes I wonder: is it just me? When people around me suddenly stop doing the things that used to annoy me, I feel strangely unsettled. I can’t help but ask myself, “Why?”