I'm confronting them today, Margie thinks as she pulls on her uniform to go to work. It's been seven years. Seven years since they moved in. I've watched their baby girl a few times and even walked their dog. She does some chores across the house, sweeping and washing before grabbing her purse and bag. Then Margie begins walking towards her apartment door. She lives on the first floor, room 12B, conveniently right next door to the couple. But she sees them more than they see her. Often, at midnight downstairs in the lobby speaking with someone, maybe a friend of theirs. Or sometimes, on the street, walking towards the local bar. Tonight, however, Margie hasn't seen them. Once she reaches outside the door, a long line of brown oak doors and glass-paned windows greet her. It's all the usual she sees typically at this time of day, and no neighbors are out. The silence is typical, if not a little comforting. Walking down the hallway, Margie spots a flowerpot in front of neighbor Sarah's place. It's been quite a few years since she's been there, perhaps 2 or 3. I miss the good times we would speak about old matters. I wonder if I went there, she would want to talk again. Approaching the staircase, Margie braces herself. Many people have slipped and fallen on these rickety old stairs that the management won't fix, including some she has seen at apartment 13A.

The sound of Margie's footsteps echoes down the empty space as she makes her way down quickly, being careful not to slip. The children from the second floor like to play on these stairs and Margie wants to discourage them from doing such things. But their mothers never listen, even as she tells them when one of the children has a limp he drags around. The downstairs apartment corridor is approaching soon, and Margie takes a breath and slows down her pace. The stairs are particularly bad here, and she knows that she can't afford another fall. Last month, Margie lost her footing and tumbled down the stairs. Margie claimed it was one of the children from upstairs who pushed her down, maybe the boy she met a few nights ago on shift at her work. Or perhaps it could be the dog who has gotten loose more than a few times, but no one seems to care about that. No one believed her. Steeling her breath, Margie steps down from the stairs onto the long corridor that leads to the apartment lobby. It's early morning, so it's mostly empty. No one comes around here that often at this hour. Margie makes her way towards a room that would usually serve coffee and donuts. At this early hour, it should only be serving coffee. There are pink sprinkled treats lined up in a row, waiting to be devoured.

Is it Friday already? Margie thinks. She looks up suddenly at a noise. From what she can see, the family from next door is at a table with donuts and hot coffee steaming from their cups. They sit idly, speaking in occasional tones. Now's my chance to confront them, Margie thought. As she walked closer towards the table, Margie suddenly began to feel that she can't go further. The family's son smiles at her. He's been ten years old since he moved in, seven years ago.

"Ma'am, Ma'am, are you all right?" a voice called out to Margie, and she opened her eyes as she stood up. It was the familiar, blue-uniformed security guard. She eyed him sharply. "What time is it, sir?" Margie asked. The security guard regarded her with a look of confusion.

"It's been an hour, miss. You've been staring at that empty table over there since 3:45 am."

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