There’s a phrase that’s been whispered in my halls a few times. “If these walls could talk, I wonder what secrets they'd tell.” The scandals and mysteries these individuals are seeking overshadow the more silent aspects of people's lives. The complexity of human nature shines through the secrets that I long to share, even though I cannot.

There was a proud and traditionalist elderly man, known as Mr. Anderson, who lived on the ground floor shortly after I was constructed. One day, his son, John, brought Mr. Anderson a gift in the form of a newly commercialized home radio. Mr. Anderson was puzzled with this new gadget that created indentations in his oriental rug. While it didn't necessarily look out of place in his Beaux-Arts inspired apartment, the modern touch contradicted his otherwise timeless decor.

John patiently showed him how to operate the radio, listening to his father grumble while he learned how to operate it. A look of surprise crossed Mr. Anderson's face as he stumbled upon a station playing one of his favorite songs, something he hadn't heard in years. Mr. Anderson began to enjoy the radio. He would listen to it in his late night solitude, tapping his foot to the beat of the nostalgic music.

Another resident by the name of Leo lived on the third floor in a period of peace and love. He was a young artist known for his predominantly blue and grey impressionist style. Leo took pride in his work, refusing to conform to the vibrant styles that were taking over the art scene at the time. His minimalist, monochromatic apartment reflected the steely aesthetic he had created.

Every dinner and cocktail party Leo hosted was successful, but he would spend the entire event on edge, worried he would be found out. A small, locked room that his guests would often try to enter, either mistaking it for a bathroom or attempting to satiate their curiosity. Rumors spread, but no one ever found out the truth.

I knew exactly what Leo refused to reveal. The tiny room was an art studio that contained a kaleidoscope of color. Bright, postmodern art filled the room, a stark contrast to the moody persona he wore. It was always unclear why Leo kept this psychedelic side a secret.

Chloe and Liam were a young couple on the fifth floor who enjoyed surprising each other with small, romantic gestures. Chloe sometimes discovered little notes left on her vanity, while Liam would come out of the shower to find a heart or message written in the steam on the bathroom mirror. It was never a competition; they just cherished brightening the other person's day.

As their fifth anniversary approached, they independently devised plans for a surprise date night. Both of them snuck around for months, oblivious to what the other was doing. A few nights before the date, while Liam was out with friends, Chloe went up to the rooftop to hang string lights. To her surprise, she found a table and two chairs that hadn't been there the last time she was there. She was perplexed, she thought her and Liam were the only ones who frequented this spot.

The metal rooftop door opened, startling Chloe and nearly making her drop the lights she was still carrying. Liam stepped out, holding a box, but froze when he saw Chloe. Their surprise was met with shared laughter, as they realized they were both planning surprise dates for the other. With the secret out, they now worked together to transform the rooftop into a cozy haven. With the rooftop preparations complete, Liam couldn't help but smile. He had managed to keep one more secret from Chloe in the form of a ring box, tucked away safely in his jacket pocket.

On the fourth floor of the building, there was a tenant simply known as "The Herbalist". She was quiet the eccentric character, always tending to her lush indoor garden. Her equally eclectic apartment was filled with an assortment of crystals and curious relics. She could often be heard humming soft melodies as she made her various tinctures and herbal concoctions.

Most of the residents cherished her presence, finding comfort in her cheerful demeanor and desire to help. They would come to her, seeking advice on life troubles or relief for their ailments. Other tenants dismissed her as a witch or an occultist, unable to see past her oddities.

Regardless of what her neighbors thought of her, there was a secret she kept very well hidden. Beneath her perpetual smile, she carried a profound loss. This loss drove her to the world of healing, both spiritually and physically. She hoped that mending others would in turn mend her own broken heart. So her apartment was turned into a healing sanctuary where she shared in the collective grief of her fellow tenants.

Once a month, the herbalist would slip away in the night to an unoccupied first floor apartment. The other residents were used to her erratic behavior, so a monthly pilgrimage was easily concealed thanks to her reputation. The vacant room knew more about her grief than anyone and offered her comfort and sanctuary in her silent struggle. She would pay tribute to the love that shaped her into the compassionate soul she became and to mourn the loss of that same love. Once her single, flickering candle burned out and her tears were no more, she returned to her peculiar apartment, ready to provide solace to the aching hearts of those that needed her.

There are countless stories in these walls, all testaments to human experience. The joys, the suffering, the nostalgia, and the hope. While I could share many more, I've come to learn that the beauty of these secrets lies in their hidden nature. These special memories are meant to be whispered in quiet corners so they can linger in the deteriorating brick and mortar of this place, so I choose to keep them.