Between Walls

I moved in on a Tuesday, which felt like a bad omen. Tuesdays have no personality. They’re not hopeful like Mondays or forgiving like Fridays. They just exist, like an obligation you forgot you agreed to.

The taxi dropped me outside a narrow terraced house with peeling blue paint and a front step worn concave by decades of feet. The kind of place that had held a lot of lives without ever quite belonging to any of them. I stood there longer than necessary, key cold in my palm, listening to the quiet hum of the street. No music. No voices. No sense of arrival.

I remember thinking: At least it’s quiet.

The door opened before I could knock.

She stood there barefoot, holding it with one hand like she wasn’t sure whether to invite me in or keep the world out. Dark hair pulled back loosely, strands escaping around her face, wearing an oversized jumper that swallowed her frame. She looked surprised to see me, genuinely surprised as if she’d been expecting someone else. Or no one at all.

“You must be…,” she started, then stopped, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. New housemate?”

I nodded, suddenly aware of how much space my suitcase took up, how solid I felt. “Yeah. I’m-"

“Come in,” she said quickly, stepping aside. “I’m Mara.”

Her voice was soft but certain, like she didn’t raise it often and had learned how to make that count.

The hallway smelled faintly of dust and something sweet I couldn’t place. Old flowers, maybe. Or paper. The walls were lined with mismatched frames;empty, I noticed. No photos. Just glass catching light.

“There are five of us,” Mara said, bending to grab the handle of my suitcase before I could stop her. “But you won’t see much of the others.”

That struck me as odd, but moving always makes you generous with explanations. Five people meant shared rent, cheap bills, a reason not to question silence.

“Shift work?” I offered.

She smiled, relieved. “Something like that.”

The house was narrow and deeper than it looked from the street, like it extended inward rather than up. Each room felt slightly disconnected from the next, as if they’d been added on by different hands with different intentions. The floorboards creaked, but not under our weight, it was more like a delayed response, the sound arriving a second too late.

“This is you,” she said, stopping at the end of the hall.

The spare room was small but bright, with a single window overlooking the back garden. Ivy climbed the brick wall outside, pressed flat against the glass like it was trying to get in. The bed was already made. Too neatly, I thought, like it hadn’t been slept in.

“I hope it’s okay,” Mara said. “I aired it out.”

“For how long?”

She hesitated. “A while.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, so I smiled instead. “It’s perfect. Honestly.”

She lingered in the doorway as I stepped inside, hands twisting in the hem of her jumper. There was something almost shy about her presence, like she didn’t quite believe she was allowed to be there.

“If you need anything,” she said, “I’m just down the hall.”

After she left, I sat on the edge of the bed and listened.

The house didn’t settle the way others do when someone new arrives. No doors opened. No footsteps retreated. No voices complained about the noise. Just the low hum of the fridge somewhere far away, steady and patient.

I unpacked slowly, folding clothes into drawers that smelled faintly of lavender. Every so often, I caught myself pausing, waiting for something or someone to interrupt me.

No one did.

That night, I found Mara in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a mug cupped between her hands. The light above the stove cast her in soft gold, like she belonged to it. She looked up when I entered, eyes brightening in a way that felt entirely unguarded.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said immediately, though I wasn’t sure I wanted tea so much as I wanted to stay.

We sat opposite each other at the small table, knees nearly touching. She didn’t drink from her mug. Just held it, like the warmth mattered more than the contents.

“You settling in okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s… peaceful.”

Her smile flickered. “It is.”

I wanted to ask her about the others then. Ask why the house felt paused, like a held breath. Instead, I asked where she worked, what she liked to read, whether she’d always lived here.

She answered carefully, like someone choosing what information to give out to a stranger. I took the same approach.

When I finally went to bed, the house felt different; less empty. Like it had noticed me.

I slept deeper than I had in weeks.

And in the dark, just before drifting off, I had the strangest, most fleeting thought:

I’m glad someone is happy I'm here.