It started with a broken waterline, and a prompt fix shortly therafter. I heard him early that morning cranking away with a wrench and the occasional swear. But by midday, the water flowed from my faucet and I was able to enjoy a shower.

Having lived there for all of a week, I should have asked his name, if only to say thank you. He smiled all the same as I stepped out of the two-story duplex we shared. He quickly picked up his red tool box, and proceeded down the front walkway towards an even redder pickup truck parked just down the street. My thanks stuck in my throat as I watched him go.

Fast-forward a week and I saw him changing the tire on Mrs. Duboise’s beat up old Buick next door. The next, I was in the coffee shop on the corner of our street, not-so -subtly eavesdropping on the barista.

"Really sir, that's too much!"

"Just take it, please."

The only bill I saw in the jar on the counter was a crumpled up $50 note.

And that is only what I witnessed in my three weeks of living in this neighborhood.

It didn't matter where I went, the gossip around town focused on the helpful, quiet neighbor named Paul. One thing did not quite add up, however. Apparently, I was the only one who heard the moans and the sobs each night. The walls and floors were rather thin.

I could never tell who it was that was actually making the noise. Every morning it was only Paul that left the upstairs unit.

As weeks went by, I only ever saw Paul running an errand of some kind or fixing some household object - and it was only ever for someone else. But each night the cries returned.

Late one Tuesday (or rather, early in the morning), I lay awake after a particularly long shift desperate for some quiet. Having had enough, I threw the sheets from my body and marched to the front door. Standing on the stoop amidst the soft yellow porch light, I rapped on the door to his unit. I was met with silence.

I waited for a whole minute with no answer. Re-entering my unit, I stood by the front door. No sound came from my upstairs neighbor.

The next night, the sobs returned, but they were different, quieter. As if they were muffled. Again, I marched to the front door and banged as loud I could. Silence.

The third night I banged again. But this time, Paul's door yanked open an inch.

"What." it wasn't a question..

I panicked for a moment. "Are you okay?"

There was a beat.

Then the door slammed shut.