It wasn't long after he had moved into this new neighbourhood that John noticed the repetitive voice coming from the street. The neighbourhood seemed relatively calm considering its proximity to the city centre. He initially resisted the idea of renting the apartment but once alternatives dried out, he resentfully took it. It took him a good few weeks and several tries to be sure of the source of the repetitive voice. A boy, probably 8-9 years old, accompanied by his mother. He made the same sound as they passed through the area, holding hands. The sound was monotone, with almost precisely the same space between each repetition. It was guttural and primal like something one would expect from sheep or a raven. The precision and repetitiveness, like a high quality metronome or a church bell, was what took John’s interest in the first place and made it impossible for him to tune out. When the sound was there, it was impossible for him to focus on anything else, no matter how important the task was. John thought he was starting to hear voices before confirming it did indeed come from this boy. There were times he thought “I must be losing it” as he kept searching where it came from, unable to make sure for an extended period of time. At first, John was annoyed with the repetitive pattern of the sound. He was distracted by similar sounds - a clock, or the sound of the rotation of a car engine. He valued his silent time, and had found it challenging getting used to the constant construction noise, the garbage truck coming in almost exactly at the same time every night as he got ready to go to sleep, his neighbour’s dog that barked loudly throughout the day and sometimes at night, and now the boy. Though he also loved waking up to the chirping of the birds visiting the small garden across his bedroom window every morning. John knew it wasn’t the boy’s fault, like he made a concentrated effort to annoy this new member of the neighbourhood with his chanting. John felt ashamed of finding himself annoyed too. He wished he could help the boy in some way. He thought his mother probably took the boy to a special needs school, passing through the street on which John lived.
He remembered seeing the boy up close for the first time; he had been living in the neighbourhood for a couple of years by then. As he left the building to take out the recycling he had carefully collected over the past couple of days, he heard the sound again, this time echoing much closer. He turned his head round to see the boy and his mother. It almost felt like a celebrity sighting for John. He had heard the same chant repeated frequently over the past couple of years. He also noticed how the boy’s voice started to change little by little. It began dropping lower gradually as the boy got older. The kind of change one would not notice on a daily basis but thinking back a few months, it becomes more obvious to note. John could only imagine how challenging it must be for them as he made eye contact with both. A gentle, warm smile on John’s face. Not really any clear acknowledgement coming back from either. This happened right by the door of the building in which John lived. The boy was holding on to the railing next to the door, chanting his now familiar pattern at a slightly lower pitch. His mother patiently waiting as she held his hand.
After their brief, and mostly one-sided exchange, John kept thinking about them as he dropped his recycling bags and went to the nearby park for a walk, as he did most days. John felt warm inside, thinking about the amount of love the two must have for one another. He thought of his own mother, the love they shared. He had no doubt his mum would have had the same loving patience for John, were they to switch places.
After their encounter, John could only think about this love whenever he heard the boy. Of course, there were days in which he was feeling heavy and found it easy to become annoyed, but now even in those days, the annoyance quickly dissipated and he was able to focus on the love again.
Months and years had passed. Seasons changed. Friends and lovers, old and new. The voice of the boy had changed noticeably as he hit puberty, though not its frequency. Over time, John had observed there to be a certain, visible love the neighbourhood had for the boy and his mother. Not pity. Not any sort of condescending behaviour or attitude. A kind smile, the baker at the corner making sure their order was ready at the time they would pass by, the owner of the restaurant pulling the chairs as the boy and his mother approached, always bringing them a couple of glasses of water. It was one of the reasons John felt more and more comfortable living there, feeling like he was part of a good community comprised of kind people for the most part. It helped give him a sense of home and belonging, even with its many repetitive sounds and seemingly endless destruction and construction.
It was one of these days he woke up feeling hopeful and energetic as he followed his morning routine to the dot. He noticed on Instagram(or “He noticed, thanks to the notification he received on his phone”) that it was the birthday of a friend. “Happy happy birthday!” he wrote, adding an assortment of emojis to his message. Minutes later, “Thank you darling!” followed by an even wider array of emojis. They chatted for a few minutes, both agreeing that it had been a while since they shared a coffee, and that they should change that soon. They agreed to grab their coffee the following day, at the café where they first met.
The next morning, John went to his favourite bookstore to grab one of the books that had left its mark on him, No Archive Will Restore You by Julietta Singh, gift wrapped it, and brought it to the café to hand it to his friend as a slightly belated birthday gift. He chatted about the neighbourhood with the owner of the café, who had opened her business a few months prior, and was a good friend of the birthday friend too. Despite the cheerful mood he found himself in, there came with it a side of uneasiness he could not shake since he had woken up. His friend arrived, greeted by loud celebratory sounds coming from John and the café owner. They shared a warm embrace, followed by the handing over of the book and a sincere, caring conversation. He recognised that even though he knew his friend was working at a special needs school, he had never quite put the pieces together that she might know of the boy and his mother. He felt stupid at the realisation, and was gripped by a sharp and sudden worry. John thought that it had been a few days since he last heard of the chanting of the boy. He felt guilty and self-centred as he dissociated while his friend and the café owner continued their chat. When he pulled himself together, he needed to muster up the courage… He asked if they knew about the boy and the mother, stating he felt worried and embarrassed as it had been a few days since the last time he saw or heard them.
The conversation stopped. The mood shifted. Gleeful no more. A heavy seriousness had befallen their faces. John felt terrible asking about it. Not only did it take several days for him to notice, but now he had also ruined the mood of his friend’s birthday celebration. They both told him what had happened as his mind kept looking for a rock to hide under, hearing the words they uttered but trying his damndest to not fully digest or accept their meaning. The boy had passed two weeks prior. He had a rare disease. The family and friends knew this would happen. He had actually lived for two years longer than the most optimistic of predictions from his doctors. John felt an emptiness within him, covered with the shame of self-importance. It felt like losing a loved one he had just found out existed. Tears started rolling down his face as the café owner and his friend looked at him, trying to decipher his reaction. It was as if they were both trying to tell John that they had no idea he cared so much about the boy and his mother. Neither did he.