The door creaked again — a long, plaintive groan that seemed to slice through the apartment’s heavy air.
In the living room, Igor twitched as if struck. He was sprawled on the couch, one hand holding his phone, thumb scrolling idly through the news. The glow of the screen lit his face, flat and expressionless, except for the faint tightening of his jaw.

From the kitchen doorway, Tatyana Yevgenyevna—small, fragile, gray hair pulled into a careful bun—stood with her hands clasped in front of her.
“Forgive me, Igor,” she said quietly. “The door to my room… it creaks so much at night. Could you maybe oil the hinges? If it’s not too much trouble.”

He didn’t look at her.
Just a grunt — a guttural, lazy sound that wasn’t quite a yes, wasn’t quite a no.

That was enough for her. She smiled faintly, nodded, and disappeared back behind the offending door. The hinges screamed again as she shut it.

Yulia—her daughter, Igor’s wife—stood by the counter, wiping it with slow, deliberate movements. She didn’t turn around, didn’t say a word, but her shoulders tensed. The tension had weight now; you could almost touch it.

All week, Igor had moved through the apartment like a storm front—his silence louder than thunder, his resentment thick as humidity before lightning.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t slam doors. He just existed like a shadow that devoured all warmth around it.

The faintest sounds irritated him—the rustle of her mother’s newspaper, the smell of medicine, even the rhythm of her breathing.

He finally tossed his phone aside, exhaling sharply.

“Your old hag,” he muttered, his voice low, venomous, “is going to start giving me orders now? In my house?”

“She just asked about the door,” Yulia said softly. “It really does squeak, Igor. I was going to tell you myself.”

He looked up, lips curling in mockery. “Of course. She’s got the run of the place already, hasn’t she? Next thing, she’ll have me walking on tiptoe around her precious nerves.”

That was unfair, and they both knew it.
Tatyana barely left her room, afraid to take up space. The woman who’d once run a household now moved like a ghost, apologizing for existing.

“She came for a week,” Yulia said. “Just for her tests. She already feels terrible for being here.”

“In our way, you mean?” His tone sharpened. “No, you’re wrong. She’s in my way. I can’t even relax in my own living room without feeling her eavesdropping through the wall. Always judging, always there.”

He slammed the refrigerator door for no reason and stormed back to the couch. Headphones went on—his favorite form of warfare.

The apartment sank into silence again.
From the hallway, the door creaked one more time.
That sound went straight through Yulia’s heart like a knife.

Dinner

By evening, the apartment was thick with silence. Dinner passed under the weight of it.
The clink of forks sounded obscene.

Her mother ate quickly, head bowed, as if speed could make her invisible. When she finished, she thanked them—formally, politely—and hurried back to her room. The door creaked again, that thin metallic shriek, and Yulia flinched.

Across from her, Igor ate with loud, deliberate bites. It wasn’t hunger—it was defiance.

“Igor,” she said finally. “We need to talk.”

He didn’t look up. “About what? My position’s clear.”

“Your position?” She laughed bitterly. “Your position is torturing an old woman with your silence.”

He threw down his fork. “Torturing? I’m the one being tortured! She walks around like she owns the place. I can’t breathe without her judging me!”

“She hasn’t said a word to you in days!”

“Exactly!” he barked. “That’s her thing! Silent disapproval. You think I don’t see it? That’s what your mother does. That’s what you do too. Always the martyr act—suffering quietly so I look like the villain. Just like my own mother.”

He didn’t notice Yulia rise from her chair until she was standing right beside him.

“What did you just say?”

He blinked, still riding the wave of anger. “You’re becoming her. The same—”

He didn’t finish. Her eyes stopped him cold.

“Listen carefully, Igor.” Her voice was a whisper—slow, lethal. “You can badmouth your own mother all you like. But if you say one more word about mine—one word I don’t like—you’ll be out of this apartment tonight. No arguments. No second chances.”

She leaned closer, her tone freezing.

“You live in my apartment. You eat my food. You sleep in my bed. Don’t forget it again.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.
He saw it then—something final in her eyes. Something that had closed forever.

She walked away, washed the dishes, placed his pillow on the couch.
Then she locked the bedroom door behind her.

The click of the lock echoed like a verdict.

Morning

When she emerged the next morning, her movements were brisk, efficient, impersonal.
She made tea for her mother, yogurt for breakfast. Not a glance for Igor.

He hovered awkwardly, half-ashamed, half-furious. But when she carried both cups into her mother’s room, closing the door softly behind her, something inside him snapped.

He wasn’t a husband anymore. He was a stranger. A tolerated presence.

When they left for the clinic, he sat in silence, staring at the wall.
Every object mocked him—the sofa he’d slept on, the photos of Yulia and her mother smiling from the sideboard.

By the time they returned, something black and ugly had taken root inside him.

The Breaking Point

Lunch was quiet again.
Tatyana moved slowly, careful not to make noise. Yulia set the table for three, though her movements had all the warmth of a robot’s.

Afterward, Tatyana brewed tea. She hesitated, then poured a second cup and brought it timidly to Igor.

“For the nerves,” she whispered. “A calming blend.”

Her voice trembled. Her hand did too.
It was the final spark.

Igor laughed—low, cruel.

“You think I need calming down? You think I’m the problem here?” He leaned forward, his face twisting. “You came here to die, didn’t you? Came to make sure your daughter’s life ends with you. You’re a burden. Always were. Always will be.”

“Igor!” Yulia’s voice was sharp now—but calm, terrifyingly calm.

He ignored her, standing over the trembling woman.
“You’re nothing! You’ve always been nothing! And the sooner you stop sucking the air out of this place, the better for everyone!”

When he finished, the silence returned—but not the same silence.
This one was electric, lethal.

Yulia put down her plate, turned to him, and walked slowly to the front door.
She unlocked it, swung it open, and faced him.

“Out.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said out. Now.”

“Are you insane? You’re throwing me out?”

“I warned you,” she said simply. “You said your word. Now it’s my turn.”

Her calmness was absolute. Her stillness was power.

For the first time, Igor understood what fear felt like—not the fear of a woman’s anger, but the fear of her certainty.

He hesitated, then muttered, “You’ll regret this.”

She didn’t answer.
She just closed the door behind him.

The lock turned once. Then again.

Epilogue: The Quiet After

Inside, Tatyana sat at the table, hands over her face, shaking.
Yulia crossed the kitchen, picked up her phone, and calmly called a locksmith.

“Yes. Tomorrow morning. Change both locks.”

Then she hung up.

The apartment fell silent again.
But it was a different silence now—clean, steady, strong.
The silence of scorched earth, where nothing false would ever grow again.