The Silence in Apartment 6B

It sat at the end of the hallway in the old Briarwood Complex, behind a chipped green door that hadn’t opened in years. The light above it flickered constantly, humming like a dying bee. People passed it quickly. Even the building super, Mr. Hartley, who had worked there for over two decades, claimed the apartment was just “storage space.”

But we all knew it wasn’t.

your Ahmar

When I moved into 6C, right across from it, I thought the stories were urban legends. Things bored neighbors invented to make their lives interesting. Ghosts. Strange lights. A woman in a long nightgown who sometimes looked out from behind the curtain, though no one had lived there for at least ten years.

Nonsense.

Until the night I heard the knocking.

It was 2:13 AM—an oddly precise moment. I had just returned from a night shift at the diner. Tired, I kicked off my shoes, plopped onto the couch, and was about to doze off when I heard it.

Three knocks. Slow. Hollow. Deliberate.

From behind the green door.

I held my breath, waiting for someone to open it. No one did. I peeked through my peephole. The hallway was empty. When I opened my door, all I saw was that same flickering bulb, bathing the carpet in a nervous yellow.

The next morning, I asked Hartley if anyone had moved in. He gave me a look like I’d asked him if clouds were edible.

“6B?” he said. “Nope. Empty as ever.”

He walked off before I could ask anything else.

That night, it happened again.

2:13 AM.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, I recorded it on my phone. When I played it back, there was nothing. Just silence. Not even ambient building noise. It was as if the moment had been erased.

Then, two nights later, I saw her.

I had just come back from the corner store, arms full of instant noodles and cheap wine, when I caught a glimpse of movement through the curtain of 6B. A pale face. A woman—early 30s, maybe—watching me. Her expression wasn’t threatening, but it was… hollow. As if she were trying to remember how to smile.

I blinked. She was gone.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The next day, I asked around the building. Most people shrugged me off, but one old woman on the third floor—Mrs. Langley—pulled me aside and whispered,

“They say she was a pianist. Lived alone. Played beautiful music. Then one day, the music stopped. No one saw her again. But some say… she never left.”

When I pressed for more, she crossed herself and muttered something about souls and silence.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That door. Those knocks. That face.

So I made a decision.

I was going in.

It wasn’t hard to get the key. I lied to Hartley—told him I heard water dripping from inside, and that it might be a leak. He grumbled, tossed me a rusted keyring, and warned me not to take too long.

When I slid the key into the lock, it resisted at first. As if the door didn’t want to open. But then, with a groan and a sigh, it gave way.

The air inside was cold. Dust hung in the air like tiny ghosts. Furniture draped in white sheets gave the room an eerie shape, like forgotten memories trying to take form.

And there—by the window—was a piano.

Old. Black. Its keys yellowed with age. And next to it, a chair. Empty.

I walked slowly, drawn by something I couldn’t explain. I reached out and pressed one key.

Silence.

Not a single sound.

I tried another. And another.

Nothing.

Suddenly, I heard the door slam behind me. I turned. No one was there.

When I looked back at the piano—

She was sitting there.

The woman. Pale, quiet, her fingers hovering above the keys. Her eyes met mine.

“I was waiting,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

“For someone to listen.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

She began to play.

Except no sound came out. Her fingers danced with precision, grace, emotion—but the room remained deathly quiet.

Then I understood.

The silence wasn’t hers. It was mine.

The silence of ignoring stories. Of turning away from grief. Of pretending people like her—alone, unheard, unseen—never existed.

Tears streamed down her face as she played in silence.

And for the first time in years, I listened.

When I left the apartment, the door closed behind me on its own.

I returned the key. Hartley never asked me what I found.

But that night, at 2:13 AM, I heard no knocking.

Only faint music.

Just loud enough for those willing to hear