The Apartment Above Mine - By Minha Shamsudheen

Written By: Minha Shamsudheen

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In "The Apartment Above Mine," Minha Shamsudheen crafts a poignant short story exploring themes of loneliness, memory, and connection. Submitted for the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative delves into the life of a young protagonist who finds solace in the mysterious sounds from the apartment above. Through the rhythmic sounds of everyday life, a profound connection forms, transcending the boundaries of isolation and silence. Join us as we unravel this touching tale that highlights the beauty of human connection through the echoes of ordinary life.

About the Work

"The Apartment Above Mine" beautifully captures the essence of human connection through the ordinary sounds of life. The story unfolds with a mysterious allure, drawing readers into the protagonist's world where the mundane becomes significant. Shamsudheen's narrative style is atmospheric and immersive, creating a vivid tapestry of sound and silence. The work explores deep themes of loneliness and memory, leaving a lasting impression about the importance of acknowledging and cherishing the echoes of lives intertwined.

The Apartment Above Mine

Original Submission by Minha Shamsudheen

The Apartment Above Mine

Every night at 10:17, the woman upstairs dragged a chair across the floor.

It was the first sound: a long, wooden scrape travelling through the ceiling above my bedroom. Then came three measured footsteps, the click of a cupboard, and the thin whistle of a kettle. Every night, always in that order. Scrape. Step, step, step. Click. Whistle. I was sixteen, and I had never seen her, but I began to build her life from the noises she made.

I imagined her as an old woman with silver hair pinned loosely at the back of her head, sitting beside a window with a cup of tea between her hands. I imagined she had plants on the balcony and a photograph of someone she missed beside her bed. Sometimes I imagined she lived alone. Sometimes I imagined a husband still complained that she dragged the kitchen chair too loudly. I knew it was ridiculous to invent a stranger from footsteps, but there was something comforting about knowing that at exactly 10:17, someone else was awake.

My mother thought I was strange.

“You've never even met her.”

“I know.”

“You don't know that it's a woman.”

“I do.”

“How?”

I shrugged. “It sounds like one.”

She laughed and went back to washing the dishes. I listened to the water running through the kitchen pipes and waited for the clock to reach 10:17.

The noises became part of my life. On nights when I couldn't sleep, I waited for them. During thunderstorms, when rain battered the windows and lightning turned my room white, the scrape of the chair reassured me that someone was awake above me. When I came home after a terrible day at school, I sometimes stood beneath the ceiling and listened to the footsteps crossing the apartment overhead. I knew nothing about her, yet somehow her ordinary life made mine feel less lonely.

Then, one Tuesday, the sounds stopped.

At 10:17, I waited.

Nothing.

I checked the clock.

10:18.

10:19.

The silence seemed enormous.

The next night, nothing. Then another. By the fourth evening, I found myself staring at the ceiling while brushing my teeth, half-expecting the chair to scrape across the tiles.

“Did the woman upstairs move?” I asked my mother.

She looked up from her phone.

“What woman?”

“The one in 1204.”

Her expression changed.

“That apartment has been empty for months.”

I laughed because I thought she was joking.

“No. I hear her every night.”

Mother shook her head. “Maybe you heard the neighbours.”

But I knew those sounds. I had listened to them for nearly a year.

The following afternoon, I went upstairs.

Apartment 1204 was at the end of the corridor, beneath a flickering yellow light. I knocked once. Nothing. I knocked again, harder.

The door opposite opened, and an elderly woman peered out.

“Can I help you?”

“The woman who lived here,” I said, pointing at 1204. “Where is she?”

The neighbour's face softened.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

My stomach tightened.

“She died?”

“No. No. She's in a care home. Her daughter moved her there after she fell.”

I looked at the closed door.

“But I hear her.”

The woman was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “The recordings.”

I stared at her.

“What recordings?”

She explained that the old woman had lived in the apartment for forty-three years. Her husband had died first. Then her sister. Her children had moved abroad. Eventually, she had been living alone. She hated the silence so much that she began recording the sounds of her ordinary evenings: her chair scraping the kitchen floor, her footsteps, the cupboard closing, the kettle boiling.

Every night at 10:17, a timer played them.

“She said she wanted the apartment to sound alive,” the neighbour told me.

I went home and sat on my bed.

For the first time, I understood why the sounds had mattered so much to me.

I had thought I was listening to a woman living her life.

She had been listening to proof that she had once had one.

The next Saturday, I visited her.

The care home smelled of disinfectant, boiled vegetables and lavender soap. Afternoon sunlight stretched across the corridor in pale rectangles, and somewhere behind a closed door, a television murmured to itself. I found her sitting beside a window, a knitted blanket across her knees.

She was smaller than I had imagined.

Her hair was white and thin, and she wore a pale blue cardigan. When I approached, she looked up.

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

She smiled.

“Then you must be lost.”

“I live downstairs.”

For a second, she simply stared at me.

Then her eyes widened.

“You're the boy who listens.”

I laughed nervously.

“You knew?”

“Of course.”

She pointed toward the chair beside her.

“Sit.”

I did.

She asked my name. I told her. She asked what I did at school, what music I listened to, whether I had siblings. I answered everything. Then I asked about the apartment.

She told me about her husband, who had died eleven years earlier. About the yellow curtains he hated. About the chair that had belonged to her mother. About the cupboard whose door never closed properly. She told me that after her husband died, she would sometimes speak aloud simply to hear another voice in the rooms.

“People think loneliness means having nobody around,” she said, looking through the window. “Sometimes it means having a thousand things you want to tell someone and nowhere for the words to go.”

I didn't know what to say.

So I stayed.

I began visiting every Saturday.

She told me stories she had not told anyone in years. I told her about school, my friends, the things I was afraid to admit to my parents. Sometimes we drank tea together. Sometimes we sat without speaking. She never seemed to mind the silence anymore.

Then, one Saturday, I arrived and found her room empty.

A nurse stopped me in the corridor.

“She passed away this morning.”

The words seemed too small.

I looked toward the window where she always sat. Sunlight was falling across the empty chair.

The nurse handed me an envelope.

“She left this for you.”

Inside was a key and a note.

For the boy downstairs.

I unfolded it carefully.

She had written that she once believed the worst thing about being forgotten was that nobody would remember your name. As she grew older, she realised it was something else.

It is being surrounded by silence until you begin to believe your life made no sound at all.

Then, beneath it:

Thank you for listening.

I cried before I finished reading.

That evening, I went upstairs with the key.

The apartment smelled of dust, old wood and something faintly floral, as if the rooms had absorbed decades of perfume. Her furniture was still there. The yellow curtains. The photographs. The plants, dry and brittle beside the window. In the kitchen stood the chair.

I touched its back.

Then I pulled it across the floor.

The scrape echoed through the empty apartment.

I took three steps.

Opened the cupboard.

Filled the kettle.

At 10:17, I switched on the recording.

Her voice didn't appear. Only the sounds: the chair, the footsteps, the cupboard, the kettle.

The same ordinary noises I had once mistaken for proof that she was still there.

I stood in the middle of her kitchen and listened.

Then I understood.

She had never been trying to make the apartment sound occupied.

She had been leaving evidence that she had lived.

Evidence that someone had once dragged that chair, boiled that tea, opened that cupboard, walked those three steps. Evidence that an ordinary life was still a life, even when nobody was watching.

I turned off the recording.

The silence returned.

This time, I didn't fear it.

I sat in her chair until the city lights appeared beyond the windows, one by one, glowing against the dark.

And for the first time, I understood that perhaps this was what we owed one another-not to keep people from disappearing, because eventually everyone does, but to listen closely enough that their lives leave an echo.

So I stayed until the kettle went cold.

And when I finally left, I locked the door behind me.

Not because the apartment was empty.

Because it wasn't.

It was full of a woman who had lived there for forty-three years, and for one boy who had been lucky enough to hear her.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates the power of words and stories from around the world. This prestigious event invites writers to share their voices and creativity, fostering a global community of storytellers. Participants engage in diverse categories, showcasing their unique perspectives and literary talents. The competition serves as a platform for emerging writers to express their craft and connect with a wider audience, celebrating the art of storytelling in all its forms.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Minha Shamsudheen for sharing "The Apartment Above Mine" with us. This touching narrative, part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, reminds us of the profound impact of human connection and the echoes of lives lived. Thank you, Minha, for your contribution to this celebration of storytelling and creativity.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.