"Any idea what's causing it?"
"Urban decay, dear. Mark my words, it's the beginning of the end."
Mrs. Patterson's convinced everything's the beginning of the end. Last month it was the new bike lanes. Before that, the coffee shop's decision to stop serving proper tea.
The lift wheezes to life. Second floor. Third. Fourth. My floor.
Thud.
The sound's definitely stronger up here. It seems to pulse through the hallway carpet, up through my shoes, into my chest cavity.
Flat 4C. Home sweet cramped home. I juggle keys and bags while my phone rings again.
Reminder: Gentrification article due 3pm
Reminder: Therapy appointment tomorrow 2pm
Reminder: Mother's birthday next week (buy present!)
The parade of digital anxiety. I swipe them all away and unlock my door.
THUD.
Inside my flat, the sound transforms. Not just heard now, felt. The floorboards vibrate under my feet. My coffee mug onthe kitchen counter trembles against the ceramic surface like it's trying to escape.
I drop everything by the door. Laptop bag slumps against the wall. Journal skitters across the hardwood floor, landing open to yesterday's entry:"Tuesday: Productive day planned. Will definitely finish article early and maybe reorganize spice rack."
The optimism of past-Maya always astounds me.
THUD.
The sound's rhythmic now. Precise. Every twelve seconds, I count. Like clockwork, if clockwork was designed by someone with a grudge against structural integrity.
My flat's a studio masquerading as a one-bedroom, which estate agents callefficiently designedand normal humans callexpensive shoebox. Kitchen alcove, living area that's really just a couch and coffee table pretending to be sophisticated, bedroom that fits a double bed if you don't mind climbing over it to reach the wardrobe.
But it's mine. Sort of. For as long as I can make rent.
THUD.
I press my ear against the wall that adjoins 4D. Mrs. Singh lives there. A retired librarian who waters her balcony plants with the dedication of someone tending a botanical garden. Definitely not the type to renovate with industrial equipment.
The wall vibrates against my cheek. The sound's not coming from her flat.
THUD.
Above me? 5C is directly overhead. Young couple, both work in tech, travel constantly. Their flat should be empty.
I grab a glass from the kitchen and press it against the ceiling. Old trick from university, it amplifies sound through solid surfaces. Nothing but the building's usual creaks and the distant hum of traffic.
THUD.
The glass nearly slips from my hand. Whatever's making this noise, it's not coming from above.
Or below.
Or beside.
It's coming frominsidethe walls.
