My name is Velma, and at 67, I’ve spent the past three years living alone in my cozy little house on Elm Street. It’s been just me ever since my husband, Arvid, passed away after a sudden illness.
The doctors said it was his heart, but I’ve always believed it was something deeper, something worn out—he was tired of fighting the pain, tired of the struggle. One quiet morning, he slipped away, and since then, this house has felt emptier, quieter, a silence that no one else can fill.
What hurts most, though, is the quiet—the absence of his footsteps in the hall, the smell of coffee brewing before I even opened my eyes, the soft hum of him working away in the garage on some project or another.
The only thing that still carries the essence of our life together is his old piano.
He bought that piano when we were young, newlyweds living in a tiny apartment above a laundromat. Money was tight, but Arvid saved for months to get that piano, and I remember crying the moment I saw it in our little living room, taking up half the space but filling the room with warmth.
I’ve played it every day since. Every morning, after breakfast, I sit by the window with a cup of coffee and play Arvid’s favorite tune—“Moon River.”
I don’t play loud, I don’t try to make my neighbors hear me. I play for me, for the memories of him that live on in each note. Music is my breath; without it, I’d have no sense of who I am anymore.
For most of the time I’ve lived here, the neighbors have been kind about it. Some have even said they love hearing the music drift across the street on warm afternoons. But then, a few weeks ago, everything changed.
A new neighbor moved in. His name is Duval.
From the start, he seemed unhappy—maybe with the move, maybe with life. I tried to be friendly. I baked cookies and left them on his doorstep with a little note, but he didn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he started glaring at my house whenever I played my piano.
If a sprinkler hissed for too long, he’d sigh loudly. If the mail truck lingered, he’d groan like it was the end of the world. And every time I sat down at the piano, even when I played softly, I’d catch him watching me from his window, his face full of disapproval.
At first, I thought, “Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he’ll get over it.” But it didn’t go away. It only got worse.
Then, one morning, I woke up early as usual. The sun was shining through the curtains, birds were singing outside, and I made my coffee with a splash of cream, ready to enjoy the quiet of the morning. I stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, but the moment my foot hit the porch, I knew something was wrong.
My front door was covered in eggs. Thick yellow streaks ran down the white paint, and shells stuck to the wood, crunching under my slippers. Trash was scattered everywhere—crumpled paper, an empty soda can, even a banana peel.
The smell hit me next, a nauseating mix of rotting eggs and garbage. I covered my nose, trying to hold it together, and stepped back, staring at the mess.
For a moment, I was frozen. Who would do this? And why?
And then, I saw it—a trail of broken egg shells leading from my door, across my front lawn, and directly to Duval’s porch. My stomach twisted. Could he really be responsible for this over piano music?
I stood there for a while, trying to calm myself, but deep down, I knew.
I took a deep breath and made my way across the yard to his door. My heart was pounding in my chest as I knocked. Three times.
I stood on his worn-out welcome mat, my hands trembling. Finally, the door opened.
Duval stood there in wrinkled sweats, an old T-shirt, a coffee mug in his hand. His hair was a mess, his eyes were tired, his face blank.
“Duval,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “Do you know anything about my door?”
He took a sip of his coffee, didn’t even blink, and then just stared at me, like I was asking him about something trivial.
Then, he spoke.
“Yeah, I did it.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You threw eggs at my house?” I asked, almost in disbelief.
He just shrugged, like it was nothing.
“Yep. You play that piano every damn day, and I’m done. Maybe now you’ll stop.”
My chest tightened, my throat dry.
“You could have just talked to me about it,” I said. “You could’ve knocked on my door, asked me to play quieter, or at a different time. I would’ve listened, Duval. We could’ve worked it out.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, still wearing that irritating smirk.
“Lady, I don’t beg people to act right,” he said. “This was faster. Consider it a wake-up call. You’ll remember.”
And then, without another word, he slammed the door in my face.
I stood there, stunned, my blood boiling. I couldn’t believe this grown man could do something so cruel, so childish, and feel absolutely no shame.
I walked back home, stepping over the eggshells and trash that littered my yard, the stench in the air making my stomach churn again.
I grabbed a bucket, filled it with soapy water, and knelt down to scrub the mess. Yellow streaks smeared across the door, shells clinging like they were part of the wood.
Tears started to roll down my cheeks, not because of the mess, but because of the cruelty I had just experienced. How could anyone be so mean over something as innocent as a song that kept my husband’s memory alive?
I kept scrubbing, wiping my tears with the back of my hand, trying to pull myself together.
Then, I heard a car pulling into the driveway.
It was my daughter, Lux, smiling as she got out of the car with groceries in hand. She had said she was coming today, but in the midst of everything, I had forgotten.
Her smile vanished when she saw me, kneeling on the steps, the mess still all around. She dropped the bags and ran over to me.
“Mom? What happened?”
I stood up, brushing my hair from my face and forcing a smile. “It’s okay, honey. Just cleaning up a little mess.”
She looked at the door, the bucket, and then me. Her confusion turned into anger in an instant.
“That’s no little mess. Someone egged our house!”
I sighed, trying to calm her down. “It’s okay, Lux. Really. It’s over.”
But she crouched beside me, her eyes searching mine. “Mom. Who did this?”
I hesitated for a moment. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but Lux knew me too well. She gave me that look—the one that said she knew I was hiding something.
So, I told her everything: about Duval, the piano, his confession, and the slammed door.
She stared at me, speechless, her mouth hanging open.
“He did WHAT?”
Before I could stop her, she was up and marching down the street, phone in hand.
“Lux, wait—” I called after her.
“You stay here, Mom,” she called back. “I’ve got this.”
And with that, she was gone.
I watched her from the window as she knocked on every door on the block—Mrs. Midge’s first, then Mr. Lewis across the street, the Thompsons down the block. She was fast, explaining what had happened, and one by one, people came out onto their porches. They shook their heads, glared at Duval’s house.
A few minutes later, Lux burst back through the door, breathless and fired up.
“Mom, they’re all mad. And guess what? Nobody is bothered by your music. They love it. Mrs. Midge says it reminds her of her mom. Mr. Lewis says his kids fall asleep easier when you play. Mr. Brooks opens his window every afternoon just to listen.”
I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I’d felt so ashamed earlier, but now, I felt seen.
Lux folded her arms, a little smirk on her face. “You’re not the problem. He is.”
I smiled, and then I heard it—voices from outside. Neighbors were gathering on the sidewalk, waving and shouting encouragement.
“We love your music, Velma!”
“Don’t let that grouch get you down!”
Mr. Lewis was grinning. “You know what? It’s time we showed Duval what loud really means.”
Everyone laughed, but then they all nodded seriously.
Mrs. Midge still had her old college guitar. Her husband brought out his