The flat came to Marianne through a chance ad: Flat, centre, cheap, urgent. It looked too cheap, with scuffed parquet and peeling windowsills, yet the ceilings were high and the windows enormous.
After her divorce, Marianne wasnt looking for a roof so much as a sanctuarya place where no one asked, Are you sure you wont regret this?
She received the keys on a Friday evening, while the city already smelled of damp leaves. October, the month when everything falls apart and then gathers itself anew, hung heavy in the air.
The first night she barely slept. She perched on the sill, wrapped in a blanket, watching the windows opposite. The opposite flat was a palmsized illustration: fifth floor, a balcony with crimson petunias, a soft, warm light spilling from the living room. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a woman with a braid as slender as a vintage yoghurt advert, and two childrena little girl and a boy. They set the table together; the girl leapt, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled, the father uncorked a bottle of wine. Their laughter drifted through the glass.
Marianne sank back onto her pillow. How long had she not heard laughter inside a house?
The next morning she sipped coffee on the same sill and looked again. Across the way they were having breakfast. The man read the newspaper, the woman brushed the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car.
During the day Marianne unpacked boxes. In the evening she walked to the corner shop, just across the courtyard. At the entrance she collided with the woman from the opposite flat, who was juggling bags of apples and a bottle of cherry cola. An apple rolled under Mariannes foot.
Oh! Sorry, the woman laughed. Everything seems to slip from my hands today!
Marianne caught the apple and smiled.
No worries. Need a hand?
Yes, that would be lovely! Im Olive. You just moved in, right?
Just a few days ago. Marianne.
Then you must try my strudel! Its a family custom to treat new neighbours. Shall I bring it over?
Olive appeared an hour later, carrying a hot tin smelling of cinnamon and a little pot of icecream for dessert balance. She moved as lightly as a cat, wearing jeans, a highwaisted skirt, and a grin that was almost too wide.
They sat with tea, talking. Olive told her:
We moved here five years ago. Lucky usan investor appeared, we renovated. My husband works in IT, the kids go to a local academy. Im at home now but thinking of opening a motherandbaby café.
A motherandbaby café? Marianne repeated.
Yes, a place where you can be with little ones, pushchairs, a kettle, a chat, no rush.
Marianne listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp stir insidesomething like envy.
You have it all really, she said.
We try, Olive nodded.
When Olive left, Marianne stood again at the window. In the opposite kitchen Olive stood at the stove, her husband slipped behind her in an embrace, she laughed. The children bounded, fell, squealed.
Marianne sighed.
This is how it should be: warm, safe, built on love. She switched off the light, yet even as sleep took her, the opposite windows glowed like a cinema screen, showing a film she had missed.
*
Marian, are you home? Ive got a honey cake!
Marianne opened the door. Olive stood there, a slice in one hand, a knitted bag in the other, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, a fresh bruiselike a strap or a hard handjust below her collarbone.
You a bruise. Everything alright?
Olive tugged at her sweater collar.
Oh, that? Im clumsy. I left a cupboard door ajar, then bent over silly, right?
Marianne didnt believe her, but said nothing.
Olive began visiting oftenonce a week at first, then almost daily, bringing pies, salads, stories.
We have a honesty day every Saturday, Olive explained. We openly say what irritates us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It actually works.
And the kids?
We never fight in front of them. They must see were a team.
Marianne listened, yet a growing sense told her something was off. Too perfect, too textbook.
One evening they walked home together from the shop.
You know, I used to be very different, Olive said. I worked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met him. He turned me upside down.
In what way? Marianne asked.
In a good way! He taught me to be myself, not to play, not to lie.
Marianne nodded, but Olives words felt rehearsed, as if lifted from a handbook on female happiness.
A few days later Marianne stood at the window out of habit. The opposite flat was dim, then a flash of light, a shoutfirst male, then female, then a childs cry. The door slammed. The light went out a minute later.
In the morning Marianne met Olive in the hallway, sunglasses perched on her face despite the grey sky.
Everything okay? Marianne asked.
Fine. We just burned out. Happens. Dont worry.
Marianne didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Marianne visited, the children sat silently on the carpet, toys held tightly as if they were shields. Olive set out tea. Marianne asked softly,
Are you sure everythings alright?
Olive froze, kettle in hand, then sat slowly.
Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop window. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, obedient kids. At night I wake up shouting, but nobody hears.
Maybe you should
No, Olive cut in. Its not what you think. He doesnt beat me. Hes just tired. Im not sugar either. Whos perfect, anyway?
That night Marianne watched their windows again. They were drinking tea, laughing, but she now saw the daughter flinch when her father raised his voice, Olive averting her gaze, the husband speaking through clenched teeth. A beautiful fairytale, yet inside sharp teeth clicked.
*
Marianne increasingly wondered: perhaps she was wrong? Perhaps it was all her projection? After the divorce she trusted no man, no relationship, not even herself. Maybe envy merely sharpened her vigilance. Yet each new encounter with Olive added a fresh jolt of anxiety.
One day Olive arrived with pancakes, her hand awkward, barely bending.
Everything okay? Marianne asked.
Just a pulled muscle. Yoga isnt a joke.
Olives smile was plastic, displaycase perfect.
You can trust me if you want.
Suddenly Olive changed. She seemed switched off.
Marian, please stop. Hes not a monster. Hes just tired. He works so we can live, and I I can be unbearable. I know that.
Youre bruised, Olive. You wear sunglasses when its overcast. You whisper to the children.
Thats how it has to be.
What does has to be mean?
If you dont get it youve never really been married.
Marianne had no reply. Olive left.
That night Marianne watched a drama on TV, but heard nothing. Her chest thumped, a light panic rose like a storm brewing.
Then a sound.
First a dull thump, then a screamfemale, then a harsh male shout:
Quiet! I said quiet!
Something crashed, metal scraped.
Marianne froze, rose, walked to the window. The opposite flat glowed; shadows moved like a rehearsal. A scream, then a childs wail, then silence.
She dialed 999. The operators voice was calm, almost soothing.
Are you sure this is violence?
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call?
I
She stopped. No confirmation, only her, the night, the feeling that if she didnt act now it would get worse.
The call will be logged. Patrol will come, but its best you dont intervene.
The patrol arrived after forty minutes. Footsteps, muffled conversations, a door slammed, then silence. Through the window Marianne saw the husband standing in the doorway, speaking politely to police, documents in hand. Olive was nowhere to be seen.
That morning a soft knock came at Mariannes door.
Olive.
Her eyes swollen, hair hastily gathered, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
Marianne let her in, set a kettle on.
Did you call?
I did. Im sorry, I had no other choice.
Olive sat, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife smile, cook, listen hed love me, soften. He only squeezes tighter, a little more each week.
You can leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Olives eyes widened, then she pressed her hand to her lips and wept.
Youre the only one who doesnt look away. Everyone else turns their heads, even at the academy where my daughter studies. No one says a word. Its a dark world.
Its not dark for me.
Youre not a rescuer. Youre just a neighbour.
And youre not an object.
Olive stayed silent for a long stretch, then stood.
Ill go. Not today, but I will.
Marianne nodded, feeling herself become a dim light in anothers window not bright, but warm.
*
The night was thick, like setin jam. Darkness filled the panes, silence hung in the air, rain whispered faintly on the sill.
When Marianne heard a knock she first thought it was imagination, then again twice, cautiously.
She opened, breath caught.
Olive, in a halfopen robe, slippers, no umbrella. Wet strands clung to her face, tears streaked her cheeks, a fresh bruise etched on her cheek, a plush rabbit clutched in her hand.
May I just sit? she whispered.
Marianne let her in.
Olive sank into the corner sofa, hugging the rabbit. She stayed silent; only her shoulders trembled.
He says I ruin his life. If I dont learn to be quiet, hell teach me. Then he struck. Not hard, but it wasnt the first time.
Are the children
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Olive, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere. He has money, connections. Im nothing. I cant even get a job. With the kids they wont take me.
Marianne sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core.
Youre human. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find them. Ill help. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Marianne. Im tired of fearing and of hoping.
Im here. Not a saviour, but I wont turn away.
Olive fell silent, then rested her head on Mariannes shoulder, hugging the rabbit, quiet as a child.
Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say Its your fault. Who simply is.
And Ill stay until you have the strength to say Enough.
They sat for ages, listening to rain erasing old pain.
Two weeks later Olive left, with just a backpack, a sack of childrens clothes, and a neat folder of documentsno suitcases.
Marianne held that folder as they stepped out onto the almostmidnight street, the building asleep. The children walked silently, the girl clutching her brothers hand, the rabbit poking from the backpack like a distress signal.
The flat Marianne found for Olive was modest: a single room, a peeling bathroom, an ancient fridge. It was quiet, and there were no voices ordering, shouting, or throwing things.
This is our fresh start, Olive said when the kids finally fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Marianne, are the first line of this new page. Thank you.
Marianne only nodded.
Then everything spun. She called charities, rang lawyers, filled forms. Olive learned to earn from freelance gigs, bought groceries from a list, slept with the lights off without fear. The children adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed Marianne a drawing: two women, two children, the caption For Marianne.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, another night the ice in Mariannes heart thawed.
She woke early, made coffee, and, as before, stood at the window.
The opposite windows were empty. The woman who had once lived there had leftnot just the flat but the whole life she had displayed like a polished showroom wife.
Marianne watched and felt no longer jealous, no longer hurt, no longer alonejust calm. Her home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded at the door; she opened it.
Olive stood there in a coat, cheeks pink, the children behind her. The girl held the plush rabbit, the boy a jar of jam.
We were wondering, Olive said, have you baked anything today?
Marianne laughed.
Come in. I just took it out of the oven.
The door swung wide, not just into a flat but into morning, into a life that didnt demand perfection, only honesty.
