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The rotary phone rang at 9:40. Dialyn lifted the receiver.
"TOPS Customer Service, Rep 2493~ How can I help you today?"
"Yeah, hi. I need to file a warranty claim. My mother's humidifier, HM-4170, purchased in March. The mist output's been dropping off the last few weeks and her throat's getting dry overnight. I looked at the manual, could be the nebulizer plate or a clogged filter."
"Got it, got it. HM-4170, March purchase. And the delivery address would be...?"
"Block 17, Minghai Residentials, Unit 4-A. That's her place."
"And she's not calling herself?"
"She says it's not worth bothering anyone over."
Dialyn wrote the address on her notepad. "Well, I appreciate you calling! I can get a replacement processed, but these units are sensitive to placement. If it's not the nebulizer plate, a new unit won't fix it. You'll get the same drop-off in a month. I could swing by and take a look in person, check the filter, the positioning, make sure it actually solves the problem. All under the warranty."
"You do house calls?"
"For a customer like you, absolutely~ Saves everyone a second trip."
"Sure, that works. She's usually home in the mornings."
"One more thing. Callback number for the claim?"
He gave a number. Dialyn read it back, he confirmed it, and she wrote it under the address. She told him she'd be there before noon and set the receiver down. She was already walking before she settled the phone back against her hip.
The building was on the east side of Minghai, twelve stories of residential blocks set above the main road. The lobby was lit gray through the windows. Dialyn took the elevator to four and found Unit 4-A at the end of the hall.
She knocked.
The woman who answered was small, with gray hair pinned back and a cardigan buttoned to the collar. She looked at Dialyn, then at the rotary phone hanging from its strap across her shoulder.
"Hi there~! TOPS Customer Service. Your son called in about the humidifier this morning, so I figured I'd come check on it in person. Saves you the trouble of shipping the whole unit back. Mind if I take a look?"
"My son called?" The woman's hand stayed on the door frame. A small shake of her head. "That sounds like him."
"No trouble at all. That's what we're here for! Shall I come in?"
The woman stepped aside.
The apartment was warm and dry. Heating on and the windows closed. A narrow hallway opened into the living room: couch along one wall, low table, a shelf unit near the window holding a framed photograph and a row of paperbacks. A coat hung on the hook by the front door. Through the kitchen pass-through, Dialyn could see a cup in the drying rack, a kettle on the stove.
The humidifier sat in the far corner of the living room, next to the window.
"There you are~" Dialyn crossed the room and crouched beside it. She unplugged the unit, opened the water tank, checked the nebulizer plate. Clean. She pulled the filter out and held it up.
The mesh was stiff and clogged, white buildup along the edges.
"Here's the culprit. This filter needs replacing every three to four months. This one's the original from March."
"Oh." The woman had followed her into the room but stopped near the couch. "I didn't realize it needed that."
"Easy to miss~ They really should print it bigger on the box." Dialyn pulled a replacement filter from her kit; she carried common parts for the products she handled most. She swapped it in, snapped the tank back, and plugged the unit in. The mist picked up right away.
"Now. The other thing." She stood and looked down the hallway toward the bedroom. "Where do you sleep, down the hall?"
"The bedroom's at the end, yes."
"That's the issue. These units are rated for a single room. They can't push mist down a hallway with the heating on. The dry air eats it." Dialyn unplugged the humidifier again and picked it up. "Mind if I move it? Free of charge!"
The woman shook her head. Dialyn carried the unit down the hall and set it on the low dresser in the bedroom, near the foot of the bed. She plugged it in and adjusted the output to the second setting. Mist started coming out.
"Try it here tonight. If your throat's still dry in the morning, call me directly." She wrote her extension on the back of a service card and handed it to the woman. "That's my direct line. Skip the queue, straight to me~"
The woman held the card and looked at it.
"You didn't have to come all this way for a filter."
"Part of the service~" Dialyn pulled out her smartphone and entered the visit into her case log, thumbing through the fields. Warranty claim, on-site inspection, filter replacement, unit repositioned, direct contact provided.
The woman walked her back toward the front door.
"He always worried," the woman said. "Even when he was small, he'd check the locks before bed. Kept track of all this, the warranties, the dates." She shrugged. "I'd tell him I was fine, but… he always worried."
"Sounds like a good son to have around~"
"The best."
Dialyn stepped into the hallway. "Remember, anything comes up with the unit, you've got my number. Don't let it sit if something's off, okay?"
The woman thanked her. The door closed.
Dialyn entered the last field into the case log. Resolution: warranty fulfilled, on-site service complete. She saved it, pocketed the smartphone, and walked toward the elevator.
The light in the hallway was different now, sun coming through the window. Somewhere below, a door opened and closed.
She pressed the button and waited.
—
The rotary phone rang again just past eleven. Dialyn lifted the receiver.
"TOPS Customer Service, Rep 2493~ What can I do for you?"
"I need to cancel a recurring charge. It's on a joint account. A home monitoring service. It was set up through the joint account. I called in October and they said it was canceled, but it charged again this month."
"Got it! Account number or the name on the account?"
"The account's under both our names." He gave the number.
Dialyn wedged the receiver against her shoulder and pulled up the account on her smartphone. Joint registration, two names, the monitoring service contract listed under active subscriptions.
"I see it. Home monitoring service, monthly plan. The cancellation did go through in October on the billing side, but the problem is the hardware. There's a monitoring unit in the home that's still connected to the network, and it re-registers the service every billing cycle automatically. As long as it's plugged in, the charge comes back."
"So I have to cancel it every time?"
"No. I can come disconnect the unit. Couple minutes, I pull it off the network, process the final cancellation on-site. No more charges after that."
"...You can do that?"
"Part of the service~ What's the address?"
He gave it.
"And a callback number for the account?"
"Use the one on file."
Dialyn confirmed she'd be there within the hour and set the receiver back.
The address was a ground-floor unit in a low-rise off Ganlan Road, down the slope from the main strip. Concrete planter boxes along the front walkway, empty for winter. Dialyn found the unit number and knocked.
The woman who answered was tall, mid-fifties, hair pulled back. She wore a sweater with the sleeves pushed to her elbows and held the door open without saying anything.
"Hi~ Rep 2493 from TOPs Customer Service! I got a call about the home monitoring unit at this address."
"The home monitoring unit?"
"The monitoring service. There's a recurring charge on the account that needs to be resolved on-site."
"Right. Come in."
The front door opened into the living room: couch, low bookshelf, a lamp on the end table. A row of hooks on the wall by the entrance held a set of keys, a canvas bag, and a man's brown leather coat. Below the hooks, two pairs of shoes: the woman's near the door, and a pair of men's work boots set back against the baseboard. Through the kitchen doorway, Dialyn could see the counter: a single plate and glass in the drying rack, a microwave with the clock blinking 12:00. The thermostat on the wall where the hallway branched off read 18 degrees.
"The unit's in the utility closet," the woman said. "Down the hall."
"Lead the way~"
The hallway branched past the kitchen toward the back of the unit. On the left, a door stood open to a small study: desk against the wall, chair pushed in flush, a shelf of binders with their spines aligned. A closed laptop sat centered on the desk next to a pen holder. The room was dim, blinds drawn.
The utility closet was on the right: water heater on one side, breaker panel on the other. The monitor was mounted to the wall above the breaker panel, a gray rectangle the size of a paperback with a single green LED. Dialyn reached up and turned it over. Model number, serial, a QR code.
"This is the one. It's still drawing power and sending data, which is why the subscription keeps reactivating." She disconnected the power and network cable from the back. The green LED went dark.
"Done. I'll process the final cancellation now so it clears from your next billing cycle."
Dialyn leaned against the hallway wall and pulled up the account on her smartphone. She worked through the cancellation fields: service terminated, hardware disconnected, on-site confirmation.
"Account holder is listed as joint. I'll need a confirmation from either name on the account. That would be you or..."
"Use mine."
Dialyn entered the confirmation. "Okay. Cancellation confirmed, effective today. You'll see one more charge on this cycle. That's the current month, already billed. Nothing after. I can send the confirmation to the callback number on file if you’d—"
"That number. Don't use that one." The woman's voice was flat. "Just read it to me."
She read back the confirmation number. The woman didn't write it down.
From the kitchen, a faucet dripped.
Dialyn looked toward the kitchen. "That faucet. Is it always running like that?"
"It started a few months ago. I keep meaning to call someone."
"It's usually the washer. I've got a kit. Want me to take a look while I'm here?"
The woman looked toward the kitchen. "Sure."
Dialyn walked in and set her kit on the counter. The faucet was a single-lever type, dripping steady from the spout. She shut off the supply valves under the sink, disassembled the handle, and found the washer. It was cracked and hardened. She swapped it for a new one from her kit, reassembled, turned the supply valve back on. The dripping stopped.
"That'll hold. If it starts again, it's the valve seat. You'd want a plumber for that, but this should be good for a while."
"Thank you."
Dialyn pulled the account back up on her smartphone. "While I've got this open, there are two other active services on the joint account. A maintenance contract and an extended warranty. Want me to review them?"
The woman looked at her. "Can you cancel those too?"
"If you want them closed, I can process it right now."
"Yes."
Dialyn worked through both. The maintenance contract was for the building's HVAC. She flagged it as a tenant-held policy and submitted the termination. The extended warranty was on a kitchen appliance, expired in three months. She canceled it early and waived the fee.
"That's everything on the account. All three services terminated, confirmation numbers on file. If anything else shows up on a future bill, call me direct." She held out her service card and wrote her extension on the back. "Same as I gave the last client. Skip the queue~"
The woman took the card. She held it in one hand and didn't look at it.
Dialyn closed the case log. Service call, on-site disconnection, account closure, ancillary services terminated, faucet repair. She entered that last item under additional maintenance, no charge.
"That's me done! Anything else before I head out?"
"No. That's everything."
The woman walked her to the front door. Dialyn stepped out onto the walkway. The air was cold and dry. The temperature had dropped since morning, and the planter boxes along the path had frost on them.
The woman stood in the doorway.
"Thank you for coming out," she said. "I should have dealt with all of that sooner."
"You dealt with it today. That counts."
The door closed. Dialyn entered the final resolution into the case log, pocketed the smartphone, and walked back toward the street. Her sneakers crunched on the frost. Traffic on Ganlan Road was picking up.
—
The rotary phone rang at quarter past one. Dialyn lifted the receiver.
"TOPS Customer Service, Rep 2493. What's the issue?"
"I'm calling about a noise complaint. The unit next to mine, 6-B. There's music coming through the wall every night. Same songs, same order. I hear it from about ten until past midnight, sometimes later. It only stops when I’m asleep."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four. I've knocked. Left notes under the door. No answer."
"And you haven't been able to reach the resident directly?"
"I don't have their number. I asked the building manager, but he said he couldn't give out tenant information."
"Okay. Your address?"
"Hoi Lam Court, Block 9, Unit 6-A."
"I'll come take a look this afternoon, should be there by two. Can I get a name and callback number for the complaint?"
The caller gave both. Dialyn set the receiver down and filed the complaint on her smartphone. Noise disturbance, residential, ongoing. She logged the unit numbers. 6-A complainant, 6-B subject.
Hoi Lam Court was older construction, six stories, no elevator, poured concrete with metal railings on the stairwells. Built into the grade of the hill, the entrance half a flight up from the street. Dialyn took the stairs up. Five flights, quiet. On the last flight she heard music coming from above, muffled.
The sixth-floor landing was small. Fluorescent light, speckled concrete, two units per level. 6-A on the left, 6-B on the right.
It came through 6-B's door. A jazz station or a playlist heavy on piano and upright bass. Mid-tempo. Not a phone, something bigger. A standalone speaker or a small stereo. The volume wasn't extreme, but on the landing it was clear.
Dialyn stopped at 6-B. Standard apartment door, painted gray, a brass number plate. She knocked. Three firm knocks.
"TOPS Customer Service, Rep 2493. I'm here about a noise report on this unit. Is anyone available to talk?"
She waited. The music continued at the same volume.
She knocked again. Three times. "I'm here to help resolve the complaint. No penalties, no fines. If you could open the door, we can talk through a couple of options."
Nothing.
Dialyn stepped back and looked at the door. The doormat was a plain rubber type, standard issue, edges curling at the corners. A mail slot was cut into the lower half of the door. She crouched. Through the slot, she could see a short stretch of tile and the base of what looked like a shoe rack. Three or four envelopes on the floor beneath the slot. She couldn't read the dates from this angle.
She checked the gap under the door. A thin line of light. The overhead was on, or a window was letting in afternoon sun. She stood up.
Dialyn dialed the building management number on the rotary phone. She'd seen it listed on the directory panel on the first-floor landing.
"Hi~ This is Rep 2493 with TOPS Customer Service. I'm on the sixth floor of Block 9, following up on a noise complaint involving Unit 6-B. I need a contact number for the resident, or a secondary contact if there's one on file."
The voice on the other end was unhurried. They'd check. Could she hold?
She held. The landing was quiet except for the music. From behind the door, the piano track ended. A few seconds of silence. Then a new track started, saxophone first, then the rhythm section. The volume was the same.
The building manager came back. No secondary contact on file for 6-B. The primary tenant's name and number were in the system, but he couldn't release them directly. He could pass along Dialyn's contact information if the tenant got in touch.
"That works. Can you also tell me, any maintenance requests from that unit recently? Work orders, complaints, anything?"
He checked. Nothing in the last two months. That was all he had access to.
"Okay. And has anyone reported noise issues with that unit? Complaints on file, anything?"
Nothing for 6-B.
"Thank you." She set the receiver back and ended the call.
"Hmm. Called us but not the building."
Dialyn picked the receiver up again and dialed the complainant's callback number. It rang five times. Then clicked to voicemail, a generic greeting under the saxophone still coming through 6-B's door.
She hung up.
She waited. Then tried the number again.
Straight to voicemail. No ring.
She set the receiver down and let the rotary phone hang at her hip.
The saxophone track played through the door. She looked at the mail slot, then at the door.
She knocked a third time. Lighter.
"Hi, it's Rep 2493 again. I spoke with your building manager. I'm leaving a notice with my direct number. If you'd like to discuss the complaint or anything else, give me a call. I can work out a resolution that works for everyone."
The saxophone track ended. A few seconds of silence from behind the door. Then the next one started. This one was just strings.
Dialyn spoke to the door. "Thank you. The complaint is about volume between ten and midnight. If you can keep it below conversation level during those hours, that resolves it on our end. I'll leave my number in case you want to follow up."
She wrote the notice. Case number, her direct line, a summary of the complaint, the recommended resolution. She folded it and pushed it through the mail slot. It landed on top of the envelopes already on the floor.
Dialyn tucked her pen back into her kit. The strings still played behind the door.
Dialyn pulled out her smartphone and opened the case log. She filled in the standard fields. Noise complaint, on-site visit, no resident contact, notice left. In the resolution notes, she typed: Unit requires secondary contact, no response to in-person visit, no maintenance requests on file, recommend follow-up within 72 hours.
She saved the report and pocketed the smartphone.
Dialyn walked back to the stairwell. Behind her, the music was still playing through 6-B's door, just the strings now.
She took the stairs down. Six flights. The concrete was cold through her sneakers. Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell all the way down. The ground-floor door swung shut behind her.
Outside, the air was colder than it had been that morning. Dialyn pulled her kit higher on her shoulder and turned downhill toward the street.
—
The rotary phone rang at ten to four. Dialyn lifted the receiver.
"TOPS Customer Service, Rep 2493."
The line was open. She could hear breathing and the hum of the line.
"Hi, I'm not sure if this is the right number. I need to get a message to someone."
"I can try. Who's it for?"
He took a moment.
"My neighbor. Lin. We're in the same building, Block 22, Heung Yuen Road. She's on the third floor, I'm on the... the fourth. She's been asking me about a key and I haven't been able to tell her."
"What's the message?"
The line was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was slower.
"The key to the storage unit. Tell her it's under the blue pot. The big one, by the back door... right side, the one with the crack in it. She'll know which one. We've had those pots out there since they redid the courtyard, must be... eight or nine years now."
Dialyn wrote it down on her notepad. "Key to the storage unit, under the blue pot, right side of the back door. The pot with the crack."
"Right side. Yes. And it's the big pot, not the small one. The small one is hers, the big one is mine, but the key is under mine. Under mine."
"Got it."
"She keeps asking me about it. I should have told her weeks ago, but I..." A pause. "I keep not getting to it."
"I'll get it to her today, Mr...?"
"Chen."
"Mr. Chen. Block 22, Heung Yuen Road, third floor, Lin."
He didn't continue right away. She could hear him breathing again.
"She might not answer right away. She doesn't always... she doesn't always hear the door. But if you knock twice, and then once more after a moment, she listens for that. That's how I knock."
"Twice, then once."
"She leaves her kitchen light on when she's home. If it's on... she's there."
"I'll look for it."
"We've been in that building a long time," he said. "She waters my pots when I can't get down there. I keep track of her keys. That's... that's how it's been."
"Sounds like she's lucky to have you next door."
"I just want to make sure she has the key. She worries about these things."
"I'll make sure. And I'll check in on her while I'm there. Make sure she's doing okay. Callback number, Mr. Chen?"
The line hummed. Dialyn shifted the receiver against her ear and waited.
"...Thank you."
The line went to dial tone. Dialyn set the receiver down.
She looked at what she'd written. Blue pot, right side, back door, crack in it. Big one, not the small one. Knock twice, then once. Kitchen light. She pulled out her smartphone and entered the message into the case log. Customer request, non-service, message relay. She typed the address into the routing field and saved it. She pocketed the smartphone.
The afternoon was cold. The street outside was starting to empty.
Dialyn picked up her kit and started walking.