The bell outside apartment thirty-two had been disconnected for years. Neighbors still pressed it before knocking. When the housing office replaced the panel, Jo thought the habit would disappear with the old button.
Inside the casing, the electrician found a note in her late father's handwriting: leave this one quiet. Jo remembered him as the caretaker who never tolerated unfinished repairs. She imagined a private dispute with the tenant, or a favor concealed from the office.
The former tenant's son answered her letter. His mother had worked nights. The bell had woken her, but removing its button embarrassed visitors who could not remember which door was hers. Her father had disconnected it with permission and arranged for expected callers to knock softly at the window instead.
Jo attached the note to the repair record, where a future caretaker could find it. The new bell worked. She asked the current tenant how loudly it should ring before the electrician closed the panel. For once, the question came before the complaint, and her father's unfinished repair seemed complete.