He stood in the doorway, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, his hair disheveled, his face clearly showing that life had hit him hard in the past ten minutes.
— Please… he began, his voice faint. — What is that noise?
— A violin lesson, I replied calmly. — My child is practicing.
— But… it’s morning! he said, almost on the verge of tears.
— Exactly, I confirmed. — Eight o’clock. Legal hours.
He fell silent. It was obvious he didn’t know what to say. Behind me, my son was dragging the bow across the strings with the enthusiasm of someone performing on a grand stage.
— Ma’am, I… I work nights, the neighbor murmured. — I get home around four, I fall asleep with difficulty…
— I know, I said. — And I work during the day. And my child goes to school.
He sighed deeply. For the first time, he no longer seemed arrogant or indifferent. He just looked tired.
— Look, he said, — I’m sorry. I truly am. I didn’t realize how loud it was downstairs.
I looked at him for a few seconds. Then I stepped slightly aside.
— Come in.
He looked surprised, but stepped inside. The violin stopped. My son looked at him curiously.
— This is the neighbor upstairs, I said. — The one with the music.
My child nodded seriously.
— The man who wouldn’t let us sleep?
The neighbor blushed.
— Yes… that’s me.
— I’m learning the violin, my son said proudly. — But I’m not very good yet.
— I can tell… the neighbor muttered, then quickly corrected himself. — I mean… you’ll get there.
I smiled sincerely for the first time.
— Let’s make a deal, I said. — After 10 p.m., quiet. No speakers. No rock. And we… will try not to practice every single day.
He nodded immediately.
— I promise. I give you my word.
From that day on, the nighttime music disappeared. The first few nights, I slept with one ear alert, waiting for the familiar bass. It never came.
Instead, in the mornings, the neighbor would greet us politely on the stairwell. Sometimes he brought my son new violin strings. Once, he even brought him a better case.
After a few months, my child actually began to play beautifully. Not perfectly, but better and better.
One evening, on the stairs, the neighbor told me with a smile: — You know… I think the violin cured me of blasting rock music at full volume.
We both laughed. Sometimes, solutions don’t come from arguments or the police, but from a simple idea, a bit of courage, and… a violin that squeaks at the right time.
This work is inspired by real events and individuals, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been altered to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher assume no responsibility for the accuracy of the events or for how the characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or the publisher.