The aunt downstairs complains every day that my house is disturbing the residents, saying turning pages of a book is smashing the floor, cutting vegetables is remodeling, and turning over while sleeping is running and jumping. Property management came over a dozen times, and even the police came. My mom, in a fit of anger, took me abroad to travel for half a month. But after we left, she still complained in the group chat that 702 was running in the middle of the night and chopping meat at dawn. How can an empty house have sounds? Half a month later when we came home, the whole building exploded—what she was making a fuss about was not noise at all, but this apartment of mine.