Between the seventh and eighth floors of the Grandview Tower, an apartment existed where no blueprint showed. The elevator stopped there only if you pressed 7 and 8 simultaneously and hummed. Tenants whispered about it but few found it. Those who did entered a cozy space with mismatched furniture, a kettle always warm, and a corkboard covered in IOUs. Time moved strangely; a coffee break could last an hour or a blink. The apartment was tended by Mrs. Kline, an entity in sensible shoes, enforcing one rule: every visit required a favor exchange.
Office workers used it to nap, cry, plot career changes. Musicians left a song for advice on landlords. Someone traded fixing a sink for a babysitter. The board kept growing, favors crossing months. Mrs. Kline kept peace, gently reminding, “Balance your ledger.” Building management tried to shut it down over “unauthorized square footage.” Their inspectors never found the door. The apartment seemed to slide between moments when uninvited eyes looked.
One day, a tenant tried to move in permanently. Mrs. Kline refused. “This is a liminal lounge, not an escape,” she said. The tenant left grumbling, leaving a plant. It thrived under flickering fluorescents. When Mrs. Kline hinted at retirement, the building buzzed with worry. She trained a successor, a teenager who found the apartment while humming pop. The teen added beanbags and a charging station, kept the kettle.
The corkboard now held digital and paper notes. “Lost confidence. Will trade banana bread.” claimed within minutes. Favors stretched years. Sometimes the elevator opened there unprompted. Mrs. Kline brewed extra tea, assuming the building itself needed a favor. She pinned a cookie to the board labeled “Thank you for holding us up.” The walls seemed to sigh. The apartment remained unlisted, beloved, a reminder that kindness could live between floors if you knew the right tune and had something to offer.
When the building changed owners, lawyers demanded rent for the hidden square footage. Tenants staged a “hum-in,” filling elevators with off-key songs until the new owner relented. The apartment kept humming, a small rebellion sandwiched between floors, proving that generosity and odd rules can carve space out of steel and schedules. The successor eventually became Mrs. Kline II, sensible shoes and all, keeping the kettle full for the next weary soul.
Years later, maintenance crews replaced the elevators. Tenants panicked, fearing the hum shortcut would vanish. Mrs. Kline II supervised installation, insisting on a slight harmonic in the new motors. The apartment survived, proving some magic is just acoustics plus intent. New tenants discovered it accidentally, humming pop hooks or lullabies, stepping into a room that asked nothing but a trade. The board grew cluttered with digital printouts and handwritten notes alike, a living ledger of small mercies suspended between floors.
Once, a storm knocked out power. The elevator stalled between seven and eight with strangers inside. The emergency light flickered. Someone hummed nervously. The doors opened to the apartment, candles already lit. Mrs. Kline II handed out soup. Favors were exchanged in the glow: a charger for a story, a shoulder to cry on for a repaired umbrella. When power returned, no one rushed out. They lingered, understanding why a room off the blueprint mattered more than any penthouse.