Wall

The old man sat by the window. His name was Arthur. The apartment was quiet. The small clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Outside, the city was gray. Rain ran down the glass. People walked by. They held umbrellas. They moved fast. Arthur watched them.

He ate his soup. It was thin. The spoon was cold. He missed his wife. He looked at the chair across the table. It was empty. It was always empty.

There was a knock. Not on his door. On the wall. Tap. Tap. Tap. It came from the next apartment. Apartment 3B. He had a new neighbor. He had not seen her. He listened. Tap. Tap. Tap. He waited. Tap. Tap. Tap. He picked up his spoon. He tapped the wall. Tap.

The wall was silent. He went back to his soup.

The next day, the sun was out. Arthur went to get his mail. In the hall, there was a small paper bag by his door. It was brown. His apartment number, 3A, was written on it. He picked it up. It was light. It was warm. He took it inside.

He opened the bag. Inside was a muffin. A blueberry muffin. Steam came off it. It smelled sweet. There was a small note.

it said. “Sorry for the noise. I was hanging a picture.”

He put the muffin on a plate. He went to his own kitchen. He made two cups of tea. The cups were blue. His wife’s favorite. He put them on a tray. He took the tray. He walked to his door. He went into the hall. He stood in front of 3B. His hand was shaking. Just a little. He knocked.

The door opened. A young woman. She had kind eyes. She looked tired. “Hello,” she said. “I brought tea,” Arthur said. He held up the tray. She smiled. “Please,” she said. “Come in.” He walked inside. The apartment smelled like paint. And muffins. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you,” Arthur said. He sat down. She poured the tea.