Once again, the neighbor was tormenting his wife. The walls were thick, yet Mary could still hear his shrill voice. The woman, though, was almost silent. Every so often there was a cry—sharp, involuntary, the sound of a blow landing. Maybe she spoke too, but if she did, her words were swallowed by the meter-thick walls of their luxury building.
No one else ever seemed to notice. Just two apartments on the landing, and the soundproofing between floors was excellent. Only Mary, from time to time, was forced to listen to this ugly soundtrack behind the wall. When the screams cut especially deep, she would glare at her own reflection—flushed face, eyes blazing blue with outrage and pity—and mutter,
"Enough already."
And yet every time, she did nothing.
Tonight she had even stepped into the hallway, slamming her own door behind her. She stood there, fists clenched so tightly her palms grew damp, unable to raise her hand and knock. *If she puts up with it, then she must want it. Idiot. Masochist. Why should I get involved?*
But she knew herself. If she ever crossed that line, if she ever interfered, she wouldn't stop halfway—she'd see the bastard locked up.
The cries didn't stop.
The vile neighbor always smiled sweetly when their paths crossed in the hallway. You'd never guess he was capable of such filth at home. Just another stylish young man with money—everyone in this building was.
From inside came a heavy thud against the door. He must have shoved her. A crack opened, and a barefoot girl slipped out.
She looked like an elf—huge eyes, a little ponytail skewed to the side above pointed ears, strands sticking out at odd angles. Small, bare feet, a little crooked, child-sized. Bruises darkened her forearms. But her denim sundress was fashionable, expensive, and in her ears glittered diamond teardrops. She glanced at Mary, whispered, "Hello."
Mary stared, muttered back, "Mm-hmm." The elf lowered her gaze. A tear clung to her lashes before sliding down her pink cheek.
The door opened again. Her husband's face appeared: jeans slung low, gym-toned torso, fresh barber-shop cut, neat beard. A model citizen. He spotted Mary, broke into a dazzling smile, and said in a soft, pleasant voice:
"Good evening, Maria. Zoya, come inside. Don't make a scene."
And he closed the door.
Zoya's frightened eyes flicked toward Mary. She realized she had never really heard her neighbor speak, didn't even know her voice. The bare feet edged back toward the door. And then Mary made up her mind.
"Listen, Zoya. Here's the thing."
The elf froze, hope flickering in her eyes. That hope was reason enough to go on.
Mary pushed open her own door, took a cottage key from the hook by the mirror, and held it out.
"This is for my cottage," she said clearly, repeating the address.
"Hide it. Quietly pack your things, and when he leaves, run there. And please, google the word "abuser". Then think about it. You can stay there as long as you need."
The girl blinked, swallowed, and took the key. After a moment's thought, she tucked it under her dress. Softly she whispered:
"Thank you, Mary."
"Don't worry—we'll figure something out," Mary smiled. And a shadow of a smile flickered across the girl's face.