Night slowly settled over Flat Number 369. Though it appeared like any ordinary night, for Krishna it carried a strange, unexplainable weight. The glow of the streetlights outside slipped through the window and fell crookedly across the floor. In that light, the shadows on the walls seemed to move. Krishna sat on the sofa, a coffee mug in his hand, staring at the wall opposite him. It was an ordinary wall—white paint, faint cracks, a small patch of peeling plaster in one corner. Yet to him now, it was no longer just a barrier. It was a mystery. A question.
The voice he had heard from that wall the previous night refused to leave him. It was not a dream—he knew that. The voice carried too many details to be imagined: the tiredness of a human throat, a faint smile hidden between words, the pauses where silence spoke more than sound. Krishna had heard many noises in his life—the calls of animals in the forest at night, water dripping inside caves, the sharp crack of breaking stone. But this voice was different. It was human. It felt as though it had risen from loneliness.
He placed the mug aside and slowly walked toward the wall. Resting his palm against it, he felt the cold of the bricks. Yet even within that coldness, there seemed to be a hint of warmth.
"Janaki…" he called softly—not loudly, just enough for the wall to hear.
Silence followed. In that silence, he could hear his own heartbeat, his own breathing. Then, very gently, a sound came from the other side.
"Hmm…"
In that single syllable lived an entire world. A quiet yes. A reassurance of I'm here.
Krishna sat down, leaning against the wall. The wall was cold, but his back felt warm—not because of the bricks, but because of the questions stirring inside him.
"Last night…" he began, then stopped. How should he ask? What should he ask? Should he ask if it was real? But even asking that would mean admitting the voice itself was real.
"Are you here every day?" he finally asked. It was a safe question. It didn't touch the secret—but it moved closer to it.
"I am," Janaki replied. There was a sense of familiarity in her voice—the comfort of being at home, of knowing one's room, one's wall, one's silence.
"And you?" she asked.
Krishna smiled. Leaning against a wall and smiling felt like a new experience.
"For now… yes," he said. He meant more than that, but only those words came out. Here. Right here. Near this wall.
Their conversation flowed slowly. They could not see each other, yet each began to imagine the other's face. To Krishna, Janaki's voice suggested gentleness—a voice that did not laugh loudly, but knew how to smile. To Janaki, Krishna's voice carried weight—not exhaustion, but pain. A pain he carried while still finding the strength to speak. Neither spoke their imaginations aloud. Imagination did not need words.
After a while, a pause entered their conversation. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was a comfortable silence. Both leaned against their respective sides of the wall, sharing the same quiet. That silence felt new to Krishna. Ever since Radha had left, silence had frightened him—it clutched him tightly and stole his breath. But this silence was different. It did not make him feel alone.
"Doesn't this wall feel strange to you?" Janaki asked softly. Though she spoke of the wall, her words carried something deeper. Krishna nodded—though she could not see him.
"Ever since last night," he said. "It doesn't feel like an ordinary wall."
He surprised himself by saying it. An archaeologist—someone who trusted only evidence—was now admitting a feeling without proof.
"I've liked walls ever since I was a child," Janaki said. "They protect us. But they also hide us."
Her words struck directly at Krishna's heart. Radha used to speak the same way—seeing objects not as things, but as meanings. Krishna remained silent. He wanted to say something, but no words came. The wall too remained silent. Words on both sides. Bricks in between. Yet even those bricks seemed to be listening.
Night grew deeper. Outside noises faded. Life in the apartment slipped into sleep. But in Flat Number 369, a strange wakefulness continued. Krishna suddenly thought of Radha. She too used to talk like this at night—when sleep refused to come, discussing something endlessly. Dark matter. Temples. Human existence. "What we cannot see often has the greatest influence," she had once said. That sentence now returned to him with a new meaning. This wall was a visible barrier—but what lay behind it was the real force.
"Don't you sleep here?" Janaki asked.
Krishna smiled. "I haven't slept properly in a long time."
She remained silent. After a moment, she said, "You get used to it."
There was acceptance in her words. The voice of someone who had learned to live alongside pain. Krishna absorbed those words. He knew—some pains become familiar. But they never truly leave.
That night, Krishna had a strange dream.
He stood inside a cave. At the center of the cave was a wall—not built of bricks, but of light. On the other side stood Radha. She was speaking, but no sound reached him. When he reached out to touch the wall, it melted away. He stepped forward—and suddenly, the wall formed again.
He woke up drenched in sweat.
The wall stood before him.
The same wall.
The same silence.
Morning arrived.
But the wall remained as it was in the night.
Krishna left for work, yet his mind stayed behind—near that wall, near that voice. Even while working at the department, his attention was not on the papers before him. As he went through old records, a thought surfaced. Some ancient caves spoke of places where two times overlapped—one location, but different moments in time. He shook his head and pushed the thought away. Impossible. And yet, the word impossible had been proven wrong many times in archaeology.
When he returned in the evening, he sat near the wall again. Waiting. This time, waiting did not feel frightening. It was beginning to feel like a habit.
"You seem to be late today," Janaki said. There was a hint of irritation in her voice—but even that irritation sounded friendly. Krishna apologized and spoke about his work. She spoke about her day. Between their words, they shared fragments of their lives. But there was still one thing neither of them touched—love, the past, loss.
Toward the end of the night, Janaki suddenly said, "There's something I want to ask you."
Krishna's chest grew heavy.
"Ask," he replied.
She paused. That pause alone showed how much the question mattered.
"Why are you alone?" she asked.
The question did not strike the wall. It struck his heart.
Krishna closed his eyes. There was someone on the other side of this wall—someone who could listen without seeing his pain. He took a deep breath.
"There's a lot to tell," he said.
The chapter did not end there.
That sentence did not close a story—it opened a door.
The wall was silent. But that silence was now filled with questions. The wall did not stand merely between two rooms. It stood between two lives. On one side, a love that was lost. On the other, an unknown story. In Flat Number 369, the silent wall had begun to speak.
"Why are you alone?"
The moment the question crossed the wall and entered Krishna's heart, he found himself at a loss for words. It was a question he usually avoided. Busy with work, used to it, by choice—answers like these were always ready. But before the voice beyond the wall, they all felt like lies.
His back pressed against the cold wall, yet a slow warmth spread inside his chest. He wanted to speak. But he didn't know where to begin.
"It's okay if you don't talk," Janaki said. There was no pressure in her voice—only relief. Having someone who accepts your silence is itself a rare gift.
Krishna closed his eyes. Radha's face appeared before him—smiling, her head slightly tilted, as if saying, "You don't have to say everything at once." He breathed deeply.
"I'm learning how to be alone," he said.
It wasn't the complete truth.
But it wasn't a lie either.
Silence came from the other side of the wall. It didn't frighten him. It gave him time.
"I am too," Janaki said.
There was fatigue in her voice—not physical exhaustion, but something worn down inside.
"Learning to be alone is very hard. But sometimes, we don't have another choice."
Her words felt uncomfortably close. They had never seen each other, yet it felt as though their lives were moving along the same path.
After a while, Janaki began to speak—no one had asked her to, but she wanted to.
"My name is Janaki. I'm not new to this city. But I am new to this house."
Her words came slowly, thoughtfully.
"It's been only a few weeks since I moved here. My previous house was very small. Hardly any air. But it had… many memories."
As Krishna listened, he thought of his own home—spacious, filled with air and light. Yet burdened with memories.
"What do you do?" Krishna asked. This time, there was genuine curiosity in his question—not just to keep the conversation going, but a desire to know her.
"I stay at home most of the time," Janaki said. "Sometimes it feels like the outside world has stopped—for me."
She laughed, but there was bitterness in that laughter.
"I work. Small jobs. But that's not my life."
The words pushed Krishna into thought. Radha used to say the same thing. "Work isn't life. It's just a tool to live it."
Night moved forward slowly. Both leaned against the wall, placing their lives gently between words. Janaki spoke of her childhood—small house, few people, a lot of silence.
"In our house, there weren't many conversations," she said. "But there were many walls."
Krishna smiled.
"Walls listen," he said.
Janaki paused.
"Yes," she replied. "That's why I'm not afraid of walls. Unlike people, they don't leave halfway."
The words sank deep into Krishna's heart. Radha had not left him—but she had gone. He still did not understand that difference.
"Is there someone in your life…?" he asked, leaving the question unfinished.
Janaki understood.
"There is," she said. Just one word. But an entire life was hidden inside it.
"There is… but not here."
Her voice slowed. Krishna did not ask further. Some questions need time before they can be answered.
That night, even after the words ended, both of them remained there—leaning against the wall, each on their own side, sharing the same silence.
Krishna felt it—this silence was not drowning him. It was holding him up. He sensed that Janaki, on the other side of the wall, felt the same way. As if they were close. And yet far apart.
At one point, a small sound came from within the wall—as if something moved. Krishna became alert.
"Is everything okay?" he asked.
Janaki laughed.
"Everything's fine. This house makes noises," she said.
There was something strange in that sentence. The house makes noises.
The words stayed with Krishna. He pushed the thought aside. Searching for meaning in every strange thing was his habit. But now—now it wasn't necessary.
Morning came. Krishna had not slept through the night, yet he did not feel tired. He got up, made himself some coffee, and looked toward the wall. The wall was still the same. But after the words exchanged the previous night, it looked different—new. As he left for work, he paused at the door and glanced back once more. Toward the wall. It felt as though he was saying goodbye to someone.
Even while working at the department, his mind remained there. Janaki's words, her silences, her laughter—everything circled within him. In the afternoon, while going through a file, he came across an old note. "Two locations, the same vibration." Radha had written it. At the time, he had paid little attention. But now… the wall, the voice, the strange sounds—everything seemed to converge at one point. He closed the note. This was not work. Nor was it an illusion. This was… life.
When he returned home in the evening, he did not wait this time. Before sitting near the wall, he thought about his day. What was new in his life? A voice. A name. A connection. He leaned against the wall.
"Janaki…" he called.
After a moment, her voice came.
"I'm here."
There was a sense of home in those words. The feeling that someone existed—for him.
"You didn't answer the question I asked yesterday," she said. Krishna's chest grew heavy.
"Why are you alone?" she asked again.
This time her voice was gentle. There was no pressure—only curiosity. Krishna closed his eyes. This time, he did not evade the question.
"I lost the woman I loved," he said.
It took a long time for those words to come out. When they finally did, they felt like relief.
Silence followed from the other side of the wall. A long silence. Krishna's heart began to race. Had he said too much? Too soon? Was it a mistake? As he wrestled with his thoughts, Janaki's voice came softly.
"I am too—for now."
Just one sentence. But in it, all his words echoed.
"He left," she said. "Saying his work mattered more."
In that moment, the wall no longer felt like a wall. It felt like a thin curtain. On both sides stood the same pain.
That night, they did not speak much. Words were unnecessary. Each sat with their own pain. But this time, not alone. Even with the wall between them, it felt as though the pain was shared.
One thing became clear to Krishna—Janaki was not just another person. She had entered his life for a reason. He did not yet know what that reason was. But he knew it was not a light one.
That night, in Flat Number 369, the wall fell silent once again. But the silence was no longer empty. It was filled with the weight of two stories. One—a love story that had ended. The other… a story that had not yet begun.
They say walls can listen.
But this wall had begun to speak.
Inside two hearts.