When I bought this apartment, I thought I would finally have a quiet home in the city.
Until the mother and son moved upstairs.
At eleven o'clock in the night, the sound of skipping sounded on time, like dancing on my nerves. I came to the door to communicate, and the mother leaned against the door: "Why do you care so much about your child's growth? You can live in a villa if you can!"
When I was looking for a real estate agent, she said one thing in front of me and another behind her back, and the noise became even worse.
It wasn't until I came home from working overtime that day that I saw the transparent glue solidifying in the keyhole and the printed note on the door: "If you dare to talk too much, you will be splashed with sulfuric acid next time."
I looked up at the corridor monitor - the red indicator light was off.
At that moment I knew that the era of reasoning was over.
But they don't know that I have a habit: I have backups for everything important.
