Chapter 1 — Footsteps On The Ceiling

My neighbors have been accusing me for three months, saying that every night at exactly twelve o'clock I'm at home tap dancing. The management board and then the police took turns knocking on the door. Finally, they even installed a noise meter right in my living room. That night, just as the clock hands touched twelve, the device suddenly shot up to one hundred decibels. The police rushed in, threw away the blanket, and held me tightly on the bed. But my pant leg... is empty. I am a double amputee from the thigh down. The air froze for a moment. In the next second, from the ceiling, the sound of each rapid, urgent footsteps echoed clearly. But my house... is clearly the top floor. Twelve o'clock exactly. The door was smashed to the point where it looked like it was about to burst.

"Lam Van! Open the door!"

“The decibel meter exploded, are you still pretending to be dead?”

I woke up with a start, my chest still heavy with the afterglow of the dream that had not yet ended. In the darkness, the noise meter that management had just installed in the living room was making a shrill hissing sound, the red light was flashing, casting a light like blood leaking onto the ceiling. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. One hundred and three. Outside the door, the sound of footsteps was chaotic. The voices of men and women overlapped each other, like a group of people surrounding the mouth of a well, waiting to see if the person below had gone crazy a long time ago. I propped my hands on the edge of the bed and sat up, my fingertips shaking from the force.

“Wait a minute.” I spoke up, my throat hoarse.

There was silence outside the door for a second, then Chu Thanh's voice rang out, familiar but filled with anger:

"Are you listening, policemen? I've been holding back for three months. Every night she's like that, like she's stepping on the floor with iron shoes. We can't sleep downstairs."

The building manager quickly added:

“Miss Lam, please open the door first, don't let small things become big things.”

Small matter. I bowed my head and looked towards my legs that were covered by the blanket. That place is flat. The empty pant leg pressed against the bed sheet, like two interrupted sentences that could never be reconnected. The door is still broken. I pulled the wheelchair next to the bed, put my hands on the mattress, and used all my strength to lift myself over. I have been doing this movement for two years, as familiar as breathing. But tonight, for some reason, the handrail is cold, touching my palm to the point of numbness. I pushed the car to the front door, but I didn't open it right away. Looking through the cat's eyes, the sensor light in the hallway was dazzlingly white. Chu Thanh stood in front, his pajamas loosely draped, his face full of extreme fatigue. Behind him were the building manager and two policemen. A young man, his eyebrows furrowed. The other person was holding a notepad, his expression calm, but it was clear that he already had prejudices. I opened the door. The cold wind blew in through the door. As soon as Chu Thanh saw me, he poked his head in and looked inside. His eyes were like hooks, scanning the living room and then falling on me:

“What did you do just now?”

“Sleep and make the meter go up over a hundred decibels?” He smiled coldly. "Lam Van, I know you live alone and are in a bad mood, but you can't vent your anger on the whole building, right?"

I didn't reply. Two policemen entered the house. The red number still jumps. Ninety-nine. One hundred and one. But the room was so quiet that I could even hear my own breathing. The young police officer looked around and asked:

"Miss Lam, did you just turn on the TV, move furniture, or... do any vigorous exercise?"

I looked at him.

“I told you. Me Sleeping."

The building manager smiled wryly:

“But machines don't lie, the source of the sound is indeed from this room.”

Chu Thanh leaned against the door, his expression carrying the righteousness of someone who had been tortured for a long time:

“Normally she's weird and rarely goes out. We went to talk properly, but she didn't explain. Now that the evidence is clear, why are you still pretending?

“What do you want to see?” I asked.

Chu Thanh seemed to be waiting for this sentence and immediately pointed towards the bedroom:

“See and know.”

In that moment, I suddenly understood. They didn't come to ask. They came to catch him red-handed. The air was thick and heavy. I turned the wheelchair and gave way. The wheel rolling on the tile floor made a very soft rubbing sound. It's so funny it's funny. A group of people followed me into the bedroom. The bed sheets were messy, and next to the pillow was half a glass of water and an unfinished pack of painkillers. The curtains were half closed, the streetlight from below cast a cold white streak, pinning my slanted shadow on the wall. The young policeman looked at the bed, then looked at me:

“You were always in bed just now?”

"Alone?"

I curled my lips:

“Could there be anyone else?”

Chu Thanh, as if sensing a weakness, immediately interjected:

“Who knows? Her house always has strange movements."

The other policeman raised his hand to signal him to be quiet, then said to me:

“Miss Lam, sorry for the inconvenience. We need confirmation.”

A word that sounds so polite. My fingers tightened on the handrail, my joints turned white, my voice remained calm:

“It's up to you.”

The young police officer walked up to the bed, stopped for a second, then reached out to pull up my blanket. The moment the corner of the blanket was turned away, all sounds seemed to be muffled. The impatience on Chu Thanh's face, the disgust in the manager's eyes, the familiar official duties of the two policemen - all froze. I wear loose pajama pants. The pant leg is empty. From the thighs down, there was nothing left. In the bedroom, there was only the sound of the noise meter in the living room screaming, like an out of control bird. Chu Thanh's lips trembled, his throat slid down, his face turned white little by little.

“Sa… why…”

I looked up at him.

“You denounced me for three months.”

“Don't you know I have no legs?”

He stared at my empty pant leg, as if he knew who I was for the first time. Actually, it's not that he doesn't know. Just never paid attention. A disabled woman living alone, in his eyes, was no different from a rusty baby stroller placed at the beginning of the hallway, or a dying betel plant next to the door. It's all background. It is something that can be arbitrarily complained about, arbitrarily defined, and arbitrarily sacrificed. The building manager was the first to react, his face immediately turning red:

“Is this… is there some misunderstanding…”

“Misunderstanding?” I looked at him. “When you installed the noise meter, didn't you ask why I didn't stand up and sign my name?”

No one spoke up. The young police officer's expression changed and he softly apologized. I suddenly felt tired. Not today. It's that for the past three months — every knock on the door, every criticism, every time the whispers in the hallway suddenly quieted when I appeared — it all accumulated, like a tide, finally crashing down at this moment. Just as I was about to speak, I suddenly heard a "pop" sound above my head. But clearly. They all raised their heads at the same time. The second sound fell, like a heel being stepped on wooden planks. Slowly, draggingly, carrying an indescribable heaviness — like someone was walking barefoot, step by step, dragging along the ceiling. My breathing stopped. Chu Thanh's face immediately turned pale. The building manager blurted out:

“Is… is there someone up there?”

The young policeman almost reflexively looked up at the ceiling:

“This building... are there any other households above?”

I looked at him and said word by word:

“No.”

“My house is the top floor.”

But the footsteps didn't stop. On the contrary, it comes even closer. It was like someone was stepping on my ceiling, circling around the bed, going round and round. In that dead silence, Chu Thanh suddenly took a step back. That movement was too fast. It's too similar... running away. I see. And for the first time I realized — This "noisy" sound that lasted for three months, perhaps... was never a misunderstanding.