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The viewing time slot for the property was narrow: Saturdays between 3 and 5 pm. After months of futile searching for their future home — Tash had stopped calling it their forever home — they’d grown accustomed to the arbitrary demands of vendors.

Photos and short video clips had piqued their interest. Four generous bedrooms, including a refreshed en suite, and a kitchen that looked ready for a TV cooking show were the main drawcards for Tash. Bailey was drawn to the work shed, adding tools he hadn’t known existed to his Bunnings wish list. Buying a place beyond the suburbs would mean a longer commute, but their quality of life would make it all worthwhile.

They had found the listing on a website for owner sellers and felt confident this was another good omen. They’d lost count of the slick real estate agents with their high pressure tactics and manufactured urgency.

Tash had called the owner, keen to see if a different day or time could be arranged for the viewing. Luna was sympathetic but firm: this was the only possible time. With some shuffling, they made it work. It was a surprise to find they were the only people at the inspection, but Luna murmured something about only allowing people with the right vibe. A truck passed somewhere beyond the property, distant but heavy. Luna didn’t pause or look up. Bailey exhaled through his nose, but Tash had the compass app open, imagining morning light spilling across the north facing kitchen windows.

Bailey’s mother had suggested they take their time and get to know the local area before moving, but they couldn’t bear the thought of missing out. They returned the following Saturday afternoon. And two weeks later, at almost the same time.

‘It’s the optimal moment,’ Luna said smoothly. ‘The house really settles then.’

Their offer, strategically pitched at five per cent below the asking price, was accepted with barely a haggle. The building inspection was clear of major issues. Tash reread the phrase twice, comforted by its vagueness. Three months after first seeing the property, they’d moved in.

Within days of unpacking, Tash found Bailey standing in the front yard, a bewildered look on his face.

‘They just don’t stop!’

Bailey was staring at the road in front of the house.

She cupped her hands over her ears against the grunts and rumbles of heavy trucks hurtling past.

Bailey stared at her reproachfully. ‘Why didn’t you say something when we looked at the property?’

Tash shrugged, opening her mouth to reply, then closing it as a truck engaged its air brakes. The slope gave them a view of vacant land across the way, but the incline wasn’t kind to trucks. The almost incessant moan of brake pads and compressed air carried straight to the house. She reached for Bailey’s arm, pulling him back inside, where it was marginally quieter.

‘You can’t blame me for this,’ she said once the door closed behind them. ‘We were both looking around, inside and out. There was background noise, of course, but nothing like this.’

‘Is it temporary?’ Bailey asked. ‘Maybe it’s time we met a neighbour or two.’

No one was home at either of the adjacent properties, but they struck it lucky at the third house. As they knocked, another truck rumbled past, rattling the windows.

They introduced themselves and were invited inside. Mrs Santos guided them through to the kitchen at the back of the house, offering tea or coffee. Once seated, they asked how long she’d lived in the area — six years — and Tash couldn’t hold back any longer.

‘How do you cope with the noise?’

As if on cue, a truck thundered past, the sound funnelling down the hallway until the coffee cups trembled on the kitchen table. Mrs Santos didn’t raise her voice. She waited for the noise to pass, then responded.

‘You get used to it. Noise reducing blinds help. I’m a bit hard of hearing now, so it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. I turned the front room into a library — the books help muffle the sound.’

She offered a few more practical suggestions, and as they were leaving, she mentioned that Saturday was her favourite day of the week.

‘So it’s quieter on Saturdays?’ Bailey said slowly.

Mrs Santos smiled. ‘On Saturday afternoons. The quarry equipment is recalibrated, giving the trucks a little rest.’

***

A month later, Tash was scrolling through listings on her phone, more out of habit than intent.

‘Here it is,’ Bailey said from the kitchen.

She glanced up. The photo showed their house at a flattering angle, late afternoon light smoothing the brickwork.

Quiet location, the description read. Perfect for those seeking serenity.

The viewing time was listed underneath.

Saturday, 3 pm to 5 pm.

Tash thought of Bailey’s mother, of her suggestion about getting to know a place before committing to it. She looked at the kitchen windows, sunlight catching motes of quarry dust.

She locked her phone and set it aside. Outside, the trucks roared on.

This was written to a prompt at a local writing group.

Photo: Reading Room, Sovereign Hill, Victoria