When Velma woke to find her front door smeared with eggs and trash, she knew exactly who’d done it. Her mean neighbor had finally snapped over her daily piano playing. But when her daughter found out, she sparked a chain of events that brought the whole block together and taught one man a lesson he’d never forget.
My name is Velma. I’m 67, and for the past three years I’ve lived alone in this cozy little house on Elm Street. My husband, Arvid, left us after a sudden illness.
The doctors said it was his heart, but I believe he was simply worn out, tired of the fight and the pain. Either way, he slipped away one quiet morning, and ever since, my home has felt too still. You know what hurts most?
The quiet. No more footsteps in the hall, no more coffee brewing before I open my eyes, no more soft humming from the garage while he fixed things. The only thing that still carries our life together is his old piano.
He bought it when we were newlyweds, squeezed into a tiny apartment above a laundromat. Money was tight, but Arvid saved for months to roll that beautiful beast through our door. I cried the moment I saw it filling our little living room.
I’ve played it every day since. Each morning after breakfast, I settle by the window with a cup of coffee and play the tune Arvid loved best, “Moon River.”
I never play loud or try to reach the neighbors. I play for me, to feel Arvid still beside me.
Music is my air; without it, I wouldn’t know who I am. Most folks around here have always been sweet about it. Some even say they love hearing the notes drift over on warm afternoons.
But a few weeks ago everything shifted when a new neighbor moved in next door. His name is Duval. From day one he looked unhappy about something—maybe the move, maybe life.
I tried to welcome him. I baked cookies, left them on his step with a note. He never said thanks.
Instead he started glaring at my house. If a sprinkler hissed too long, he grumbled. If the mail truck lingered, he sighed like the world had wronged him.
And every time I touched the keys, even softly, I’d catch him staring with a look that said, “How dare you make a sound I can hear?”
At first I let it slide. Life’s too short for neighbor fights, right? I told myself he was just going through a rough patch and the sourness would fade.
Then one morning everything changed. I woke early as always. Sunlight peeked through the curtains, birds sang, I made coffee, added a splash of cream, and stepped outside for fresh air.
The moment my foot hit the porch I knew the day would be awful. My front door was coated in eggs. Thick yellow rivers ran down the white paint like tears.
Shells stuck to the wood, crunching under my slippers. Trash lay everywhere—crumpled paper, an empty soda can, even a banana peel. The smell hit me next, raw eggs mixed with rotting garbage.
I clapped a hand over my nose and backed up to see the full mess. For a second I just stared, frozen. Who does this?
Why? Then I saw it: a faint trail of broken shells crossing the lawn, over the flower bed I’d planted last spring, straight to Duval’s porch. My stomach flipped.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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