The creak of the bed is a constant in the quiet of my apartment.
It’s almost comforting in its predictability, yet unnerving in its implications.
Every night, lying there, I feel the tension in the ropes, the give in the pegs.
It’s as if the bed is whispering a warning, a reminder of all the things I can’t control.
Mr. Cunningham’s words echo in my head.
“Not worth bothering over,” he said with a shrug.
But it’s not his sleep that’s disturbed by the creaks and groans.
Not his peace that’s shattered by the fear of collapsing under the weight of a restless night.
I tried to fix it myself.
A few twists here, a few knots there.
