Бесплатный фрагмент - The Neighbor

“There is a world hidden from prying eyes, where rules and boundaries are fluid. Anything is possible there — on one condition: you must remain utterly beyond the reach of discovery. It is a dance in the shadows, where every act is shrouded in secrecy, and the only thing that truly matters is not getting caught, never allowing anyone to glimpse what lies beyond the veil.”

Chapter 1: Damage

From the fourth-floor apartment came shouts and angry curses, as though from the auditorium of an old theater where the same painfully familiar drama was performed every night. It was the standard production of their marriage, with peeling walls for scenery and an endless argument about household chores for props.

Katya’s voice cracked with bewilderment and pent-up resentment as she shouted at Sergei:

— We’ve been married for five years, and you still can’t fix that washing machine! Or, for heaven’s sake, buy a new one! Is it really that difficult?

Sergei’s face twisted with anger, and he answered her with an equally furious outburst:

— Of course! I’ve got endless free time, and money to burn! — he shot back, feeling everything he had held inside for so long boiling over. — I’ve been telling you for ages, don’t cram so many clothes into that wreck! It isn’t made of rubber! But you keep going on and on: “Break it, break it!”

But Katya refused to calm down. Her voice grew increasingly hysterical.

— I’m sick of rinsing everything by hand! Sick of you always making excuses! This isn’t just about laundry, Sergei — it’s our life! It’s the home we share, and you clearly don’t value any of it! Maybe you just don’t give a damn about me… or about our home!

— Don’t give a damn?! — Sergei exploded, feeling the blood rush to his face. — Are you saying I don’t care?! And you do, I suppose, while you spend hours glued to social media, leaving me here to work like a dog, trying to get something done?! While I’m trying to earn enough for that new machine you want so badly! Do you have any idea how hard it is when you’re on your feet all day, and then you’re expected to come home and be a handyman as well?

— You think this is easy for me?! — Katya screamed, tears already streaming down her cheeks. — You come home, and the only thing you think about is how to rest as soon as possible! What about me? I carry everything on my shoulders — the chores, the house, and this stupid washing machine you promised to fix three months ago! Maybe you’re just tired of all this, huh? Maybe you’re just tired of me!

— Oh, Katya… how much longer can this go on? — Sergei sank wearily onto the sofa, as if all the strength had drained out of him. — Let’s not do this. Please. I’ll fix it. Tomorrow. I promise.

But even through his exhaustion, his eyes held the same hopelessness as hers. They were both prisoners of this endless play, where words inflicted wounds and silence only widened the chasm between them. And somewhere beyond the walls of their apartment, life carried on as usual, indifferent to their drama — which seemed destined to last forever.

Katya followed him with a gaze blazing with resentment, then turned toward the window. Her shoulders trembled faintly, and her lips moved as she muttered bitter, indistinct words — a quiet yet venomous whisper directed into the void:

— He’s so infuriating… God, he makes me furious! All he ever does is shout… He promised. He promised… When is it finally going to happen? When, God, when?

Her muttering — soft, but steeped in venom — reached Sergei’s ears just as he was about to leave. Those muffled words were the final drop that overflowed his patience. He spun around sharply, his eyes flashing with unrestrained fury.

— You know what, Katya?! — he growled, his voice rising even louder, as if trying to drown out her grumbling — or perhaps his own doubts. — I’ve had enough of you! Enough! And I… I’m going to work! Yes, I’m going to work so I can earn the money for that damn machine you want so badly! Because I can’t listen to your endless whining anymore!

He flung the door open, and it struck the wall with a dull thud, like thunder echoing the storm raging inside their apartment. Snatching his jacket from the coat rack, he threw one last remark over his shoulder without looking at her:

— I can’t take this anymore! I can’t!

Then, without waiting for an answer, he slammed the door so hard that the walls seemed to tremble. The heavy click of the lock breaking the silence left Katya alone — with her unspoken grievances and his final, scorching words echoing through the empty room.

And Sergei walked away, leaving behind not only their argument, but another crack in the foundation of their marriage. He carried away, perhaps, a piece of himself as well — but not his promise.

Katya, left alone in the oppressive silence, felt the nervous tension slowly ebb away, giving way to an all-consuming exhaustion. She looked around the room, where only a minute ago words had cracked like lightning, and her gaze came to rest on the washing machine standing motionless — the silent witness to their discord.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, someone knocked insistently on the door. The sound was different from Sergei’s knock — not hurried or sharp, but steady and persistent, with an unmistakably businesslike quality.

Still struggling to catch her breath after the storm that had just passed, Katya went to the door and peered through the peephole. An unfamiliar man stood on the other side. He had a neatly trimmed beard and an attentive, watchful expression.

With some hesitation, she opened the door.

The man introduced himself as Pyotr and said politely, but quite directly:

— Good afternoon. I’m your neighbor from the third floor. I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem. It appears that water is leaking into my apartment from yours.

Katya froze.

A leak? That was the last thing she had expected. Sergei had only just left, and the washing machine hadn’t even been turned on. A worried thought flashed through her mind:

Could the washing machine have started leaking after all?

— Water is leaking? — she repeated uncertainly. — I… I don’t understand.

Remaining calm, Pyotr nodded.

— Yes, I understand. But there are wet patches on the ceiling of my bathroom, and they’re getting larger. It looks as though the leak is coming from above.

He spoke without hostility, but his words carried unmistakable concern. Katya felt all the confusion of the past few minutes give way to a sharper, more immediate anxiety. The stranger standing on her doorstep with such unpleasant news seemed to embody the whole chain of misfortunes rolling toward her like a snowball gathering speed.

— Oh, I’m so sorry… — Katya said sincerely, feeling her cheeks flush. — I… I have no idea how this could have happened. I’ll check right away. Maybe… maybe there’s a leak we didn’t know about.

She stood in the doorway, caught between the world of the argument that had just died down and the unexpected problem now demanding her attention. The unfamiliar face of the neighbor who had arrived with a complaint added an almost surreal quality to an already tense scene. Just when it seemed Sergei had taken all her problems with him, reality, as always, had thrown another one her way.

Before she had time to fully understand what was happening, she rushed toward the bathroom as if guided by instinct. The sight that met her eyes left her utterly stunned.

Water.

There was so much of it that it was already sloshing over the edge of the bathtub, slowly but steadily spreading across the tiled floor. And in the middle of this watery chaos stood the washing machine. It wasn’t merely leaking — it seemed to be weeping, pouring streams of water from every opening. It was as though the machine had finally surrendered, unable to withstand either the pressure of the water or the unspoken aggression hanging in the air.

Overcome with panic, Katya had no idea what to do first. Her hands reached instinctively for the shutoff valve, but it seemed not to budge — or perhaps she simply couldn’t find the strength to turn it. The water continued to rise, threatening to spill out of the bathroom and flood the hallway.

— Oh, God… — she whispered, feeling cold sweat trickle down her temples. — What is happening?

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Pyotr’s calm voice broke through the chaos:

— Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.

Without waiting for permission, he stepped into the bathroom, deftly maneuvering between the streams of water. His movements were quick and confident. He bent over the pipes, and a moment later came the unmistakable sound of a valve turning.

As if by magic, the flow of water began to weaken. The anxious gurgling gradually gave way to a quiet trickle — and then stopped altogether.

Pyotr straightened and wiped his hands on his trousers.

— That’s it. I’ve shut off the water. It looks like something has burst inside the machine. We’ll have to take a look and find out what happened.

He glanced at Katya, who stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide with bewilderment. There was no judgment or irritation in his gaze — only a calm readiness to help.

— Don’t worry so much, — he said gently. — These things happen. The important thing is that the water’s stopped. Now we just need to clean it up.

His unexpected assistance, his quiet determination in the midst of her utter confusion, made a powerful impression on Katya. She felt the wave of panic begin to recede, giving way to a timid sense of gratitude. Amid the chaos and whirlpool of events, she had found an unexpected source of support.

Pyotr straightened, dusted off his hands, and turned to Katya with a touch of businesslike regret in his voice.

— Unfortunately, I’ll have to go back downstairs. I’m renting the apartment directly below yours, and I’m afraid I’ll need to assess the damage caused by the leak. Then, of course, I’ll have to pass the information on to the landlady.

He delivered the words with such composed courtesy that their inevitability only made them hit Katya harder.

Assess the damage. Inform the landlady.

In her mind, the meaning instantly became painfully simple:

We’ll have to pay.

Her heart clenched.

Money. That endless, exhausting subject had been at the root of countless arguments with Sergei. They were barely making ends meet as it was, living on the edge and counting every penny twice. And now… now their already meager budget would have to cover the cost of the flood, repairs to someone else’s apartment, and a new washing machine they hadn’t even bought yet — a machine that, it seemed, would remain nothing more than an unattainable dream.

What were they going to do? How was she supposed to explain this to Sergei? He had already been on edge, leaving in a fury and slamming the door behind him. And now there was this news as well.

Katya felt a lump rise in her throat. Helplessness, resentment, and fear twisted together into a single, painful knot. She could see the chasm that had opened between her and Sergei as a result of their endless quarrels, and this flood was merely another reminder of how fragile their modest stability truly was.

— I… I understand, — she whispered, barely able to force the words out. — Of course… It’s just that… I don’t know how… how we’re supposed to deal with this yet. Sergei… he’s just—

She did not finish, but Pyotr seemed to understand. His eyes filled with even greater sympathy, tempered by a certain professional detachment.

— I understand, — he replied. — But unfortunately, that doesn’t change what needs to be done. Let me know as soon as you can. I’ll wait.

As Katya stood there, overwhelmed and bewildered, trying to process what had happened, Pyotr’s gaze drifted over her figure and lingered despite himself.

The little dressing gown she wore — perhaps once cozy and charming — now seemed far too thin, far too revealing. It clung awkwardly to her body, emphasizing curves that, under ordinary circumstances and amid the bustle of everyday life, might have gone unnoticed.

But now, in the strange, tense silence broken only by the soft dripping of water, the dressing gown became the center of his attention. Its delicate fabric outlined her body and did little to conceal what lay beneath. From the opening at the front, the shape of her breasts was faintly visible through the thin material, making her appear unexpectedly sensual and vulnerable.

Pyotr, who had arrived with a practical complaint, lost his train of thought for a moment. His eyes moved from the wet tiles to the ceiling, then back to Katya, catching on those subtle yet unmistakable signs of her femininity.

For an instant, a crack appeared in his professional composure. He felt a sudden, unfamiliar stir of attraction — and immediately tried to suppress it by looking away.

He felt embarrassed — embarrassed that he had succumbed to the moment, embarrassed that he had allowed himself such thoughts in a situation like this. He blinked quickly, as though trying to shake off an enchantment, and turned his attention back to the problem.

But the image that had flashed before his eyes left behind a faint, almost imperceptible trace — the mark of a momentary weakness that seemed to belong not to him, but to the moment itself: to this awkward encounter steeped in water and embarrassment.

Realizing that an uncomfortable silence had settled over his thoughts, Pyotr cleared his throat softly, reclaiming his usual businesslike composure.

— I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, — he said, turning to Katya again. — My name is Pyotr.

His voice was even, without a trace of the brief distraction that had flickered in his eyes. At thirty-five, Pyotr was a neatly groomed man with a carefully trimmed beard who gave the impression of being composed and dependable. Though attentive, his gaze now conveyed professional courtesy rather than personal interest. There was confidence in his posture and a calm sense of purpose in his movements. He was clearly accustomed to solving problems, and now that he had encountered one, he was handling it according to a well-practiced routine.

Katya, still affected by his unexpected assistance and her own confusion, answered softly:

— Katya.

Her voice was gentle, almost subdued, like an echo of the panic she had felt only moments before. At twenty-nine, she was a woman whose fragility could easily intertwine with inner strength. Now, standing before a strange man in a half-damp dressing gown, she appeared both vulnerable and resilient. Her eyes, which had been filled with anxiety only a short while ago, now looked at Pyotr with shy gratitude.

Even in these far-from-ideal circumstances, there was a natural grace about her — something subtle and alluring that may have caught Pyotr’s attention for a fleeting moment.

Two strangers brought together at the epicenter of a minor domestic disaster.

He was thirty-five: businesslike and composed, arriving with a complaint yet offering unexpected help. She was twenty-nine: shaken, but not broken, facing new financial troubles she had never anticipated. Their encounter had begun with a flood, but it left behind more than wet patches on the floor. It also left the faintest trace of mutual — if fleeting — interest.