On the Fifth Floor
Two evenings ago, when the lift shuddered to a halt between floors in an ageing block at the edge of a quiet London suburb, Emily didn’t immediately grasp what had happened. The light flickered and died, the walls swayed as if exhaling, and then—silence. It settled like a thick quilt, not frightening, but heavy, like mist over the Thames at night when you can’t tell where the shore lies. She jabbed the “open doors” button. Nothing. Then the emergency call—dead air. Had the power cut out? Or had she done something wrong? No. The lift had simply stopped, trapping her in its metal shell.
At her feet sat a shopping bag—rice, onions, cat food, batteries—ordinary things that now felt like her only tether to the world beyond these walls. She sank to the floor, pulling out her phone. No signal. Not a single bar. Like a scene from a low-budget thriller where the heroine’s stranded before disaster strikes. And then it hit her: no one even knew where she was. No one would miss her.
Emily let out a short, sharp laugh, the sound bouncing back strange and hollow. Not fear prickled her skin, but loneliness. The kind that clung like winter nights when the kettle’s gone cold and the telly murmurs to an empty room. This silence was like mornings in her flat—no footsteps, no coffee brewing, no rustling beyond the walls. Just the pale light on the windowsill and the ticking of an old clock, slicing through the quiet like a blade. No one.
She checked the time: 6:56 p.m. Beyond the lift were flats. Below lived Mrs. Wilkins, the retired librarian. Emily heard her morning coughs, the crackle of her ancient radio switching on at 5:30 sharp. Further down, a young couple with a Jack Russell that barked at every creak, as if guarding the entire building. And above, on the fifth floor—*him*. Alone. Sometimes he played guitar. No singing, no fuss, just fingers tracing melodies—warm, alive. Once or twice, Emily had lingered by his door, pretending to search her bag, listening until the music brushed something deep inside her—wordless, intimate. Then she’d hurried away, cheeks burning.
She wondered: what if his guitar sounded now? Here, in the dark, with her shopping at her feet. It’d be like a film where everything falls apart, but music stitches it back together—speaking what words never could. She held her breath. But the strings stayed silent.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. A door slammed somewhere; footsteps thudded past. Emily knocked weakly on the wall, as if testing whether she herself was still real.
“Hello?” Her voice came out smaller than she’d hoped.
Silence. Then—a muffled reply. A man’s voice, calm, slightly rough.
“Lift stuck?”
“Yes. Between the fourth and fifth.”
“Hold on. We’ll sort it.”
He didn’t give his name; she didn’t ask. Emily hugged her knees, pulling the shopping closer. His voice was steady but carried a weary kindness, as if he’d spent years talking to people who’d run out of hope.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Emily. Yours?”
“Fifth floor. Just keep talking, alright?”
So she did. Tentatively at first, tasting each word. About her cat, Whiskers, who yowled at closed doors. About her shifts at the all-night chemist, where she sold painkillers and listened to strangers’ sorrows. About customers who asked for “something for everything” with eyes that apologised for their own hurt. About the boy she once found shaking by the till, how she’d called an ambulance, and how his dad returned days later with a box of chocolates, silent except for the gratitude in his gaze.
About frosty mornings. About her grandmother’s threadbare armchair, still here years after she’d gone. About how the flat smelled different now—not of baking or herbs, but of absence. Because no one scolded her for forgetting slippers or called her in for tea.
The man listened. Occasionally an “mm” or “I see.” Once, a soft chuckle at Whiskers’ antics; another time, a quiet exhale when she mentioned her grandmother. Then he said, “I hear you.” Simple, unadorned. Yet those words held more than any comfort. They were a light in the dark, proof she wasn’t alone.
Nearly an hour later, the lift groaned awake. The bulb flickered on; the cabin shuddered and began its slow descent. Emily scrambled up, clutching her bag, staring at the doors in disbelief. Her chest fluttered, like childhood hide-and-seek when you’re finally found.
The doors opened on the ground floor. The scent of roast chicken and thyme wafted from someone’s dinner. Emily stepped out, glancing around—and almost missed him. He stood by the lobby door, holding a chipped mug that read *Keep Calm and Carry On*, the letters faded but still legible.
“You alright?” He tilted his head slightly, as if her answer mattered.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Her voice wavered.
He nodded, turning to leave, but she blurted out:
“Do you… still play? The guitar?”
He turned back. Not surprised, but with something gentle, almost familiar.
“Sometimes. You’ve heard?”
“Often. It’s… lovely. Don’t stop.”
He held her gaze a beat, as if memorising her face. No smile, but a warmth that couldn’t be hidden.
“And you—keep talking. Deal?”
Emily smiled—really smiled, eyes crinkling, as if she’d finally given herself permission.
She stepped outside, sinking onto a bench by the building. Setting her bag down, she hugged her knees. Up on the fifth floor, his light glowed—ordinary, alive. And soon, the guitar began again—soft, golden notes spilling into the night.
And it struck her: the lift hadn’t just broken. It had paused so she’d speak. So she’d be heard. And so she’d remember, at last, what it felt like to feel alive.