Far From The Madding Crowd

Between the window and the corner, the path narrowed, hemmed in by a tower of milk crates and a low table holding a shallow brass bowl. I moved through sideways, careful not to brush anything, until the painted metal rose up in front of me.

The fire door was the only part of the flat that didn’t belong to us. Heavy, institutional, its seams buried under layers of cream paint that had yellowed to the colour of paper left in sunlight. The bolt sat stiff in its housing, head dulled by age, as though it had been waiting so long to be turned the idea itself has grown rusty.

One of the boys spoke first, without looking away from the reeds.

“What’s behind it today?”

I glanced at him – his eyes were on me now, his knees still hugged close, like he’d been listening to our footsteps all along.

“The same as always,” I said, “ Another family. Just like us, only they’re moving backwards through time.”

The boy’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “So they’ll get younger?”

The other boy’s voice was softer, but it carried. “Maybe they’ll come back to before the door.”

“They can’t,” said the first. “It’s locked.”

“They could knock,” the other shrugged.

I didn’t like the way he said it.

I shook my head. “No knocking.”

Neither boy asked why. The first went back to the reeds; the other leaned his check against the wall as though listening for something I couldn’t hear. The hum, deep in the bones, shifted – a note lower this time.

I left them in their stations – the window, the corner – and followed the narrow path toward the kitchen end of the flat. The table was an old drafting board set on trestles, one corner weighted down with a stack of zines and two chipped saucers. Three candles burned there already, their light pooling on the wood like warm oil.

I filled the kettle and set it on the gas ring, the blue flame licking up with a sound that felt too quick for the room. Steam hissed against the hum’s long, patient tone.

When I brought the tea to the table, the boy in the window joined without a word. The second came slower, moving around each obstacle as though the air between them had thickened. He slid into his seat and wrapped his hands around the cup before I’d poured.

The hum of the building wa louder now – not in volume, exactly, but in presence, as though it had drawn closer to the surface. It seemed to live in the rim of the cups, the brass edges of the candleholders. One boy glanced toward the fire door once before looking down. The other kept his eyes on the flame.

We didn’t talk much some evenings. The candles did the speaking – small movements, flickers, a steady collapse of wax. I let the quiet fill in around us, pretending it was peace.

The real reason I’d never opened that door stayed exactly where it always was: between the hum and my throat.