The neighbor below asked me not to worry if we didn’t see her in the stairwell for a week, but five days later the police showed up at our door and asked why we were living so peacefully above an empty apartment.
I stood frozen in the doorway, clutching a trash bag. In front of me were two people—a tall man and a young woman in uniform. Behind them, our curious neighbors peeked their heads from the hallways. “Have you seen Anna Petrovna recently?” the female officer asked. I glanced down unconsciously at the door where our lonely neighbor lived.
Anna Petrovna was one of those rare elderly people who never complained. She always smiled, even when climbing to the third floor with heavy bags. I often offered help, and she would shyly nod, “Thank you, Alex, but I’m still fine.” My children, Nika and Mark, simply called her Anna. She brought them apples and crackers and every time repeated, “Don’t be afraid of old age; it’s not scary.”
A week ago, we bumped into each other at the mailboxes. She held onto the railing, breathing heavily, but her smile never left. “If you don’t see me around for a couple of days, don’t worry, Alex,” she said, “I’ll just be resting. I’m feeling tired.” I joked then that I’d call emergency services if I didn’t hear her cough under the windows. She waved her hand dismissively: “Don’t. No one needs me except you.” I didn’t think much of those words.
Three days passed. I noticed the usual evening sound of her TV downstairs was missing. Nika asked, “Dad, where’s Anna?” I said she was probably visiting her granddaughter or at a sanatorium. It was easier to explain that way than admit I didn’t know and hadn’t checked.
On the fourth day, I saw a newspaper wedged into the crack of her door. On the fifth day, the same newspaper had slipped down slightly. That’s when the knock came. The police. “The neighbors below reported they haven’t seen Anna Petrovna for a long time,” the officer said. “Did you hear anything unusual?” I opened my mouth to answer, but only a guilty sigh escaped.
We went downstairs together. The female officer knocked several times, shouting, “Anna Petrovna! Police!” Silence answered. The man pulled something from his pocket, exchanged a look with the officer, then said briefly, “Let’s open it.”
The door resisted slightly. The smell hit immediately—heavy, suffocating. I instinctively covered Nika’s eyes, though she was still standing at the entrance of our apartment upstairs. Mark, quiet now, clung to my arm.
Inside, everything was surprisingly neat. On the table was a mug with dried tea, a folded newspaper, and glasses nearby. A jacket was draped over a chair, as if she’d just returned and hadn’t hung it up. They found Anna Petrovna in the room, near the bed. She looked as if she’d lain down for a rest, only perfectly still.
“Five or six days,” the man muttered quietly while inspecting. The female officer turned to me, “You live right above her. Didn’t you hear any knocking or cries?” My throat tightened. I remembered her words: “Don’t… No one needs me.” And for those five days, I’d only rushed to work, chased deadlines, and urged the kids to finish their homework.
Documents, protocols, whispers in the stairwell. One neighbor murmured, “She lived quietly, died quietly.” I wanted to scream—she didn’t die quietly, she just died alone while we pretended everything was fine.
When it was over, the entrance hall emptied. The kids were silent. Suddenly Nika asked, “Dad, why did she say not to worry if we didn’t see her? Did she know?” I couldn’t answer honestly. Maybe she sensed it. Maybe she just didn’t want to be a burden.
In the evening, I entered her empty apartment with a representative from the management company to sign some papers as a witness. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. On the fridge hung drawings from my children—the same ones they gave her on holidays. Under one was crookedly written: “Anna, we love you.”
On the kitchen table lay a small envelope with my name on it: “Alex.” In trembling handwriting was written, “If I suddenly disappear, don’t be scared. It’s normal. Don’t drag me to hospitals; I’ve lived my life. Just sometimes remember me with kind words, okay? I was happy to have you and your children. Don’t fear old age. Fear forgetting each other.”
Standing in the middle of her quiet, now officially “empty” apartment, I realized we all failed the simplest test of humanity. We were afraid to seem intrusive, didn’t want to “invade her privacy,” didn’t want to take responsibility for someone else’s life. And in the end, we let her go the same way she always lived—politely, without disturbing anyone.
A week later, a note appeared on our door: “If you don’t see us for two days, please knock. We’re still alive.” Neighbors smiled awkwardly reading it, but almost all of them later came over and said, “Save our number.”
Every evening, when I take out the trash, I automatically look down to where Anna Petrovna’s door used to open. Now it’s empty. And every time I think about how easy it is for us to get used to someone else’s silence—until the police arrive asking why we live so calmly above an empty apartment.
