The form feels slightly damp in my hands. Previous tenants' frustration has probably soaked into the paper fibers.
"And if I fill this out, someone will actually investigate the building?"
"Someone will schedule a mediation session."
"With the building?"
"With whoever's causing the noise."
We're stuck in an administrative loop. She can't conceive of a complaint that doesn't involve human conflict, and I can't explain building-based mysteries to someone who's never encountered a problem that can't be solved with proper forms.
I take the paper. "Fine. I'll fill this out."
"Return it within five business days."
"Got it."
"And include any documentation. Photos, recordings, witness statements."
"Witness statements for building noises?"
"If other residents have been disturbed."
Mrs. Patterson and her trembling dog. There's one witness.
I fold the form and head for the door. Behind me, the receptionist returns to her clicking, having successfully processed another difficult tenant through the proper channels.
The walk home feels longer. Maybe because I'm carrying the brunt of bureaucratic futility, or maybe because the afternoon light's shifted, casting different shadows between the buildings. London does that—changes its personality based on cloud cover and time of day.
THUD.
I hear it from half a block away. The sound carries through brick and mortar, through Victorian architecture that's survived two world wars and countless urban renewal projects. It shouldn't be audible from the street, but there it is. Steady as a metronome.
Jeffrey waves from behind the Brew & Bytes window as I pass. I wave back, wondering if he can hear it too, or if I'm the only one tuned to this particular frequency of architectural distress.
THUD.
Louder now. Insistent.
I climb the front steps to my building, keys ready. The entrance hall smells different, not floor polish and fake meadows, but something earthier. Older. Like the building's exhaling decades of accumulated history.
The lift takes forever. Between the ground floor and the first, I count threeTHUDs. Between the first and second, four more. The sound's getting stronger.
Or I'm getting closer to its source.
Fourth floor. My hallway stretches ahead, familiar but somehow altered. The carpet pattern looks different under the afternoon light streaming through the window at the far end. More complex. Like it's trying to tell me something.
THUD.
The sound hits as I unlock my door, so strong it vibrates through the key into my hand. Whatever's happening, it's reaching peak intensity.
Inside my flat, everything's exactly as I left it. Laptop closed on the coffee table. Abandoned cortado growing a skin of disappointment. Journal still splayed open on the floor.
But the air feels charged. Electric. Like the moment before a thunderstorm when every surface hums with potential energy.
THUD.
I drop my bag and pull out the dispute form. The paper feels ridiculous now—a bureaucratic band-aid for something that defies standard categories. But it's what I have.
