On the Fifth Floor
Two evenings ago, when the lift shuddered to a halt between floors in an old block at the edge of a suburban estate, Lily didn’t immediately realise what had happened. The light flickered and died, the walls tilted slightly, and then everything went still. Silence pressed down like a heavy blanket—not frightening, but thick, like river fog at night when you’re alone and can’t tell where the shore is. Lily jabbed the “open doors” button—nothing. Then the emergency call button—dead quiet. Maybe a power cut? Or had she pressed the wrong thing? But no, the lift had just given up, trapping her in this metal box.
At her feet was a shopping bag. A bag of rice, two onions, cat food, and a pack of batteries—mundane things, her anchor to reality. So ordinary, so solid, yet now the only things tethering her to the world beyond these walls. She crouched, pulled out her phone. No signal. Not a single bar. Like a cheap thriller where the heroine gets stuck just before disaster strikes. And then it hit her—no one even knew where she was. No one would come looking.
Lily let out a short, brittle laugh. It echoed back, unfamiliar, as if it weren’t hers. The unease that followed wasn’t from fear—just loneliness. The kind that lingers on long winter nights when the kettle’s gone cold and the telly drones into empty space. This quiet was like mornings in her flat: no footsteps, no coffee brewing, no rustling from next door. Just cold light on the windowsill and the sharp tick of an old clock slicing through the silence. No one.
She checked her phone. 18:56. Beyond the lift walls were flats. Below lived Mrs. Whitmore, the retired librarian. Lily knew her morning cough, the creak of her ancient radio switching on at 5:30 sharp. Further down, a young couple with a terrier that barked at every sound as if guarding the whole building. And above, on the fifth floor—that man. Alone. Sometimes he played guitar. Wordless, unhurried, just fingers on strings. The melodies were warm, alive. Twice, Lily had lingered outside his door, pretending to rummage through her bag, listening, breath held, feeling the music touch something inside her—not words, but what lay beneath them. Then she’d hurry away, embarrassed. Too personal. Too close.
She wondered—what if the guitar started now? Here, in the dark, in this stalled lift, groceries at her feet. It’d be like a scene from a film where everything falls apart but the music saves you, saying what words never could. She listened, barely breathing. But the guitar stayed silent.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. A door slammed somewhere, footsteps thudded past. Lily tapped the wall—softly, as if checking if she herself was still alive.
“Hello?” Her voice came out quieter than she’d hoped.
Silence. Then—a muffured reply. A man’s voice, calm, slightly rough:
“Lift stuck?”
“Yeah. Between the fourth and fifth.”
“Hang on. We’ll sort it.”
He didn’t give his name, and she didn’t ask. Lily sank to the floor, pulled her bag closer, hugged her knees. His voice was steady but carried a tired kind of warmth, like he was used to talking to people who’d stopped expecting much.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lily. Yours?”
“Fifth floor. Just keep talking, yeah?”
And she did. At first haltingly, like testing the words. About her cat, Oliver, who yowls at the door if she shuts him out. About her job at the all-night chemist, where she sells aspirin and listens to strangers’ sorrows. About the customers who ask for “something for the pain” with eyes that apologise for existing. About the time she called an ambulance for a shivering boy, and his dad later came back with a box of chocolates and just stood there, wordless, grateful.
About cold mornings. About the threadbare armchair she couldn’t bring herself to toss after Gran died. About how the flat smells different now—not of baking or herbs, just… emptiness. Because no one nags her to wear slippers anymore.
The man listened. Occasionally an “mm” or “I get that.” A quiet chuckle when she mentioned the cat. A sigh at Gran’s name. Then he said, “I hear you.” Simple. No extra words. And it meant more than any comfort. Like a light left on in the dark. Proof she wasn’t alone.
Nearly an hour passed. The lift groaned, the bulb flickered on, and the cabin shuddered back to life. Lily scrambled up, grabbed her bag, stared at the doors, disbelieving. Her chest fluttered like when you’re found after a long game of hide-and-seek.
The doors opened on the ground floor. The air smelled of roast beef and thyme—someone’s dinner. Lily stepped out, glancing around, and almost missed him. He stood by the stairwell, holding an old mug that read “Keep Calm and Carry On,” the lettering faded but still legible.
“You all right?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, like he actually wanted to know.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Her voice wavered, giving her away.
He nodded, turning to leave, but she blurted:
“You… still play? The guitar?”
He turned back, looked at her—not surprised, just something soft, almost familiar.
“Sometimes. Hear me?”
“Yeah. It’s… lovely. Don’t stop.”
He held her gaze, like memorising her face. No smile, but a warmth you couldn’t fake.
“And you—keep talking. Deal?”
Lily smiled—properly, tears prickling, like she’d forgotten she could.
She stepped outside, sat on the bench by the bins. Bag at her feet, arms around her knees. She looked up. His light was on—just an ordinary bulb, but so alive. And a few minutes later, the guitar started—quiet, warm, like someone had opened a window and let the melody out into the night.
And for a moment, it felt like the lift hadn’t just broken. It had stopped so she’d speak. So someone would listen. And so she’d remember—finally—what it was to be alive.
