The room was small, smaller than Livia ever imagined she would live in one day, sixteen square metres that seemed to shrink even more when night fell, bringing with it memories that didn’t fit in that space. The roughly finished plaster walls trapped the moisture, exuding a musty smell that, ironically, she had grown accustomed to breathing. The single bed creaked with every movement, not that Livia moved much during the nights.

Since losing Alice, she slept rigidly, as if any change in position could distance her even further from the memories of her daughter. It had been a drastic change. From the spacious house in the suburbs to this adapted storeroom at the back of a run-down building where the residents barely looked each other in the eyes.

It was exactly what she needed, anonymity. There, nobody knew she had been a mother. Nobody came with those pitying looks.

Nobody asked how she was dealing with everything. Not even Daniel. Especially Daniel.

Daniel, with his eyes identical to Alice’s. Daniel with the same crooked smile that the girl had inherited. Daniel who held her hand in the hospital while the doctors tried to explain the inexplicable.

Daniel who was now just a signature on a divorce paper and a pain she could not face. On that first night in the storeroom bedroom, Livia hugged the pillow, turned towards the wall and let the tears flow silently. She didn’t want anyone to hear her.

She was tired of being the mother who lost the daughter. She just wanted to be a ghost. Invisible.

Forgotten. On the second night, however, the crying came stronger. The sobs escaped between her hands pressed against her mouth as she tried to muffle the sound.

That was when she heard, knock, knock, knock. Livia froze. The knocks came from the wall against which her body was leaning, precise, firm, as if someone on the other side knew exactly that she was there…

She held her breath, waited. Nothing else happened. On the third night, after a particularly difficult day, she had seen a girl with blonde braids like Alice’s at the market.

Livia burst into tears again as soon as she closed the bedroom door. She didn’t bother to stifle the sobs this time. She let the pain flow, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall.

Knock, knock, knock. There they were again. The same three knocks, in the same rhythm, in the same spot on the wall.

It wasn’t a coincidence. Someone was responding to her crying. For a moment she felt anger.

What right did this neighbour have to intrude on her moment of pain? Was it some kind of complaint because of the noise? But there was something in the rhythm of those knocks. They weren’t impatient or annoyed. They seemed kind, like someone saying, I’m here, I’m listening.

On the fourth night, when the crying came, Livia waited for the knocks. They came right on time. This time, with a racing heart, she raised her trembling hand and responded, knock, knock, knock.

From the other side, after a brief silence, a single knock, like a confirmation. That’s how that strange communication started, a code only they understood. Three knocks to say, I’m here.

One knock to respond, I know. Gradually, the nights became less lonely. Livia found herself waiting for the time to go back to her room, not to cry, but for that strange ritual that had become her only comfort.

One month after moving in, she discovered a pile of old papers in an abandoned box in the building’s hallway. Without much thought, she took some to her room. That night, instead of starting with tears, she wrote, who are you? Carefully, she folded the paper and pushed it through the small gap between the floor and the wall.

Then, she knocked three times. The response was slow. Livia was almost giving up when she heard the sound of paper being dragged back…

With trembling fingers, she pulled out the note. Someone trying to start over. Simple as that, no name, no history, just that phrase which somehow perfectly described what she herself was trying to do.

In the following days, the notes became more frequent. When the tears came, instead of just hitting the wall, Livia wrote, today the burden is unbearable. And the response came back, breathe, one minute at a time, you made it this far.

When he wrote, the past won’t let me sleep, she would reply, do as I do, count imaginary stars on the ceiling until your eyes grow heavy. They never talked about details. They never asked for names, ages, professions.

It was as if they both knew that the magic of that connection was precisely in the anonymity, in the purity of two souls communicating without the burdens and judgments that details bring. One night, after three months in that ritual, Livia felt an overwhelming need to talk about Alice. It was the girl’s birthday.

She would have turned seven. The whole day was an ordeal. Every hour, every minute passed, laden with memories of what they would be doing if she were still there.

The chocolate cake with strawberry frosting that Alice loved so much. The purple and blue balloons she insisted on having. The new dress that would have looked perfect on her.

With hands shaking more than usual, Livia picked up a yellowed sheet of paper and wrote, Her name was Alice. She was six years old. Her eyes were of the sky.

Her laughter, like a cartoon. She loved dancing with her father. Sleeping cuddled up with me.

Sometimes, I still hear her little footsteps running down the hallway. I smell her hair. But I can no longer touch her…

Sometimes I think that if I had done something differently, anything, perhaps she would still be here. The pain is such that even love seems to have been lost. But writing this, maybe it’s a way to keep alive the part of me that died with her.

She folded the paper carefully, as if handing over a piece of her soul, and slipped it through the gap. She knocked three times and waited, her heart in her throat. The response took longer than usual.

When she finally felt the paper being returned, Livia’s hands were trembling so much that she could barely unfold it. Thank you for trusting me with this part of your story. I can’t say I fully understand your pain, but I know what it’s like to lose something that defines who you are.

Today, celebrate Alice. Not for what could have been, but for what was. For the love you both shared.

For the laughter you can still hear. For the dance that continues in your heart. She is no longer here, but the love you feel for her remains.

And that is something no one can take away from you. That was the first night in a long time that Livia slept without crying. Another week passed.

The notes continued, bringing a silent comfort to both. Livia began to open up more. She talked about Daniel, about how deeply she loved him, but how each look at him was a painful reminder of Alice.

She talked about the guilt she felt for having distanced herself, for not being able to handle the grief alongside him. Your mysterious neighbor also began to reveal more about himself. He talked about the mistakes he made, how he let addictions destroy his family, and about the shame that prevented him from trying to fix things.

It was on a stormy night that everything changed. The rain lashed the city, making the old building groan under the strong wind. Thunder reverberated through the thin walls and the lights flickered threateningly.

Livia was curled up in bed, watching the shadows dance across the room with each lightning bolt when the power finally went out. Complete darkness enveloped her. Instinctively, Livia moved closer to the wall, seeking that connection that had become her safe harbor.

She knocked three times. She waited. Nothing.

He knocked again, harder. Anxiety beginning to grow in his chest. Silence.

Something was wrong. He always answered. Always.

Livia fumbled around the bedside table, finding the small flashlight she kept for emergencies. With her heart racing, she left the room for the dark hallway. The rainwater invaded the floor through the roof leaks, forming puddles that she avoided with difficulty.

She stopped in front of the door next to hers. She hesitated for just a second before knocking. No one answered.

She tried the doorknob. It seemed locked. She looked around, desperate, until her eyes fell on an old fire extinguisher on the wall…

When she was ready to strike the doorknob, someone stopped her. It was the person in charge of that place. Without asking anything about her intentions, he said that the door needed to be pushed with force.

With a stronger push, she managed to enter. The room was empty. Not completely empty.

There was an unmade bed, some personal items scattered about, but there was no one there. Livia swept the space with the flickering light of the flashlight until her eyes found a cardboard box in the corner. She approached slowly.

Inside the box, she found a photo. A man with a tired but kind appearance, smiling next to a girl of about eight years old. The child’s eyes were intense, full of life, painfully reminiscent of Alice’s.

There was also a letter carefully folded. If you are reading this, it’s because I’m gone. I lost my family because of my addictions.

I walked away thinking it would be for the best, that sparing them the shame would be a form of love. But your words reminded me of the value of presence, of the courage to continue even when everything hurts. Thank you for reminding me what it means to be a father.

I will come back. I will try to rebuild. Livia fell to her knees, tears streaming freely.

The letter trembled in her hands. That stranger separated from her by just a thin plaster wall had touched her soul in ways she couldn’t explain. And now, he had left.

Not to flee, but to face. To rebuild. What if? The idea struck like a lightning bolt, illuminating a path that had been hidden in the shadows of her heart.

She didn’t sleep the rest of the night. When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the cracks in the window, she had already made her decision. She took a sheet of paper and wrote her final note.

You saved me too. I discovered that I still love my husband. I’ve always loved him…

But the pain was so great that it made me forget that. Thank you for reminding me that behind the loss, there is still love. She folded it carefully, and placed it in the crack in the wall where it all began.

A farewell, and a thank you to someone whose name she would never know, but whose presence had changed everything. With trembling hands, Livia picked up the phone. Daniel’s number was still on speed dial, even after all these months.

She took a deep breath and pressed the button. One touch. Two.

Three. Livia. His voice was hoarse, surprised.

She closed her eyes, letting the familiarity of that voice envelop her. How much time had she wasted running away from him when they could have been facing the pain together? Daniel. Her voice came out choked.

Can you find me? There was a moment of silence that seemed to last an eternity. I never stopped looking for you. Six words.

Six simple words that shattered the last wall she had built around her heart. They arranged to meet at the end of the afternoon, at the same cafe where they used to go on Sundays, before taking Alice to the park. The place where they saw each other for the last time before the divorce.

Livia arrived first. She chose a table near the window, where she could watch people passing by. Every face that appeared at the door made her heart leap.

And then, he was there. Daniel looked thinner, with more grey hairs than she remembered. But his eyes, the same eyes that had hurt her so much because they reminded her of Alice, now seemed like a comfort.

A connection to what they had created together, to the love they shared. He approached slowly, as if afraid she might disappear at any moment. He sat in front of her, his hands restless on the table…

You are… he began. But the words seemed inadequate. Surviving, she completed with a sad smile.

And you? One day at a time, he replied. And there was so much familiarity in that phrase that they both felt Alice’s presence between them, not as a painful shadow, but as a light that united them. They talked for hours, about the pain, about the guilt, about the fear, about how each of them had faced grief in different ways, how they drifted apart when they needed each other the most.

I thought looking at you would always be a reminder of what we lost, Livia confessed. But now I realize that looking at you is a reminder of everything we still have. Daniel reached his hand across the table, hesitant.

Livia looked at those fingers that had so many times held hers, that had caressed Alice’s face, that had dried her tears. And she held them. There, in that simple touch, there were no grand promises of eternal happiness.

There were no guarantees that the pain would disappear. There were only two broken hearts that finally understood that together, they could carry the weight that alone crushed them. We can start slowly, she suggested, her voice almost a whisper.

We have all the time in the world, he replied, softly squeezing her hand. As they left the café, the sky was painted orange and pink, the sun bidding farewell with a promise to return the next morning. They walked side by side, not holding hands but close enough to feel each other’s warmth…

Before they parted, Daniel turned to her. What made you change your mind? After so long? Livia smiled, thinking of the stranger on the other side of the wall, the knocks that had become her anchor, the notes that had rebuilt her soul.

Someone reminded me that sometimes we need a wall between us to really start communicating.

He didn’t fully understand but he nodded. There was time for explanations, for stories, for new beginnings. When Livia returned to her small storage room-turned-bedroom that night, she didn’t feel suffocated for the first time.

The walls didn’t seem to be closing in on her. She sat on the bed, looking at the wall where it all began. She raised her hand and knocked three times.

There was no response, of course. But somehow she knew that somewhere, someone was also starting anew. Someone who, like her, had found the courage to face the past instead of running from it.

And in that small room, which once felt like a prison and now was just a temporary stop, Livia fell asleep with a comforting thought. Sometimes we need to completely lose ourselves to find our way back home.