When Martha woke to find her front door smeared with eggs and trash, she knew exactly who’d done it. Her cruel neighbor had finally snapped over her daily piano playing. But when her daughter found out, she set off a chain reaction that would unite everyone and teach one man an unforgettable lesson.
My name is Martha. I’m 67 years old, and for the past three years, I’ve lived alone in this little house on Maple Street. My husband, George, passed away after a short illness.
The doctors said it was his heart, but I think he just got tired. Tired of fighting and hurting. Either way, he slipped away quietly one morning, and ever since then, my house has been too quiet.
You know what’s the hardest part? It’s the silence. Suddenly, there are no more footsteps in the hallway, no more coffee brewing before I wake up, and no more humming from the garage while he tinkers with his tools.
The only thing left that reminds me of our life together is his old piano. He bought it when we were newlyweds, living in a cramped apartment above a laundromat. We couldn’t afford much back then, but George saved up for months to surprise me with it.
I cried when he rolled it through the door, this big beautiful thing that barely fit in our tiny living room. I’ve played it ever since. Every morning after breakfast, I sit by the window with a cup of coffee and play the same melody George loved, “Moon River.”
I don’t play it too loudly or with the intentions of making my neighbors hear it.
I play it for myself, just to remind myself that my George is still here with me. Music, for me, is like breathing. Without it, I don’t know who I’d be.
Most of my neighbors have always been kind about it. Some have even told me they enjoy hearing it drift through their open windows on warm afternoons. But a few weeks ago, things started to change when a new neighbor moved in next door.
His name is Kevin. From the very first day, he seemed unhappy about something. Maybe it was the move or life in general.
When I noticed that, I tried my best to be welcoming and friendly. I baked him cookies and left them on his porch with a little note. I thought he’d like the gesture, but I guess he didn’t.
He never said thank you. Instead, I started noticing him glaring at my house. If someone’s sprinkler was too loud, he complained.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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