Emily grew up as a sweet, gentle soul. Mum always said, Our little girl got her stubborn streak from her dad, Greg, who was always looking out for everyone, even if he didnt live long. And now Emily keeps on his good work even as a kid shed rescue any little creature that crossed her path.
When she was older, finished school and got a job, Emily moved into her granddad Gregs flat. She stayed as kindhearted and fair as ever, always lending a hand to people and animals, even when some folks thought she was a bit too soft.
One rainy autumn afternoon, on her way back from the shop, she spotted an elderly lady struggling with two halfempty shopping bags.
Good heavens, her hands are trembling, her back is bent, Emily thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for the womans many years.
She hurried over and recognised her as Mrs Margaret Howard from the same block.
Hello, let me help you with those, Emily offered, taking the bags.
At first Margaret flinched, then managed a shy smile.
Thank you, dear, but Im only going up to the fourth floor
I know, I live on the second, Emily replied with a grin.
Inside the flat, Emily glanced around it was clearly overdue for a clean.
Mrs Howard, let me give the place a tidy up. I can pop back later once Ive put my groceries away, she suggested.
Oh, darling, you dont have to waste your time on me
Its no trouble, Im home alone and its my day off, Emily said.
From then on Emily became Margarets regular helper, often sharing tea in the evenings. She loved listening to the old piano Margarets late husband had bought when they first had a son. Emily could play a bit herself shed gone to music school because Mum wanted her to but she never pursued it professionally.
Later, Emily spotted Mrs Tamara Clarke, a neighbour from the fifth floor, sitting on the communal bench.
Emily, I see youve taken Margaret under your wing. Good on you. Its a shame about her her son and daughterinlaw live in Germany, welloff, and her grandchildren stay in London. They barely visit, always whispering about waiting for her to pass so they can inherit, Tamara muttered.
Emily just shook her head. What wealth does Margaret have? Just a decent piano and solid furniture, she thought, rolling her eyes.
That evening Emily brought over a cake.
Lets have some tea. Ill get the kettle going, she chirped as she headed to the kitchen.
Dont trouble yourself, love, Margaret replied, eyes twinkling.
Just thought Id do something nice for you, Emily smiled.
They sipped tea while Margaret recounted her childhood during the war, her late husband, and her son whod long since settled abroad. She lamented the rare visits, feeling forgotten.
Do you have any grandchildren? Emily asked gently.
They see me as an old crone, a burden, Margarets voice cracked. Last year Garry came rude, but he brought fruit. As he left he said, Old thing, youre a bother, times up for you. Thats the kind of grandson we have and none of the granddaughters bother either.
Winter came, and Margaret fell ill. Emily started dropping by each evening after work, bringing meals, medicine, and groceries. One night Margaret asked, Sweetheart, could you play the piano? Id love to hear it.
Emily sat at the instrument, her fingers brushing the keys, and a gentle melody filled the room. Margaret closed her eyes, soaking up the sound, perhaps drifting back to fond memories. That became their little ritual Margaret telling simple stories, Emily humming softly on the piano.
As weeks passed, Margaret grew weaker, calling the local doctor for checkups. One afternoon, after Emily had swept the floor and dusted, Margaret turned to her.
Darling, Ive written my will. The flat will go to the grandchildren theyll be disappointed, Im sure but I want the piano to be yours.
Emily froze. Oh, Mrs Howard, I dont need anything. Im just a neighbour, not family.
Its all arranged, love. Ive taken care of it.
Spring arrived and Margaret stopped getting up, relying on the doctors visits. She passed away alone one night. The night before, as Emily sat beside her, Margaret whispered, Dont forget about the piano, love. Its yours I really mean it.
The next morning Emily rushed in before her shift, only to find Margaret gone. She called Garry on the old landline.
At the funeral Emily wept as if shed lost her own grandmother. Later the grandchildren arrived to sort the flat, and Garry a tall, selfsatisfied young man greeted Emily.
The piano will be moved to your place, dear. Your grandmother would have wanted that, he said, a hint of condescension in his tone. Thanks for looking after her, though.
Emily felt a strange mix of gratitude and pity. The movers hauled the piano into her flat, leaving the room otherwise empty.
Thank you, Margaret, she whispered, wiping tears, you were such a kind soul.
For a few days Emily couldt sit at the piano; it felt too heavy. That evening, after dinner, she opened the lid, pressed a key, and discovered a small, silkwrapped bundle tucked among the strings. Inside was a tiny jewellery box, its lid barely ajar. She lifted it and found a handful of sparkling pieces rings, earrings, bracelets, two necklaces and a photograph of a young Margaret.
A note lay beside them: Emily, dearest, these are for you. Thank you for the last year of my life; you made it happy. Keep a ring as a memory of me. If you need to sell the rest, do what you must.
Emily stared, tears spilling over. She chose one delicate ring, slipped it onto her finger, and played a soft chord.
Later, the box lay open on the table. She thought about what to do with the rest. The following Saturday she packed the jewellery into a bag and took it to a pawnshop.
Family heirlooms, the appraiser said, surprised.
Yes, very valuable, Emily replied.
When the cash was in her hands, she drove to the outskirts of town, to an old, twostorey house shed often seen abandoned. The brickwork was solid beneath flaking plaster, the garden overgrown but promising. She imagined fixing it up.
She sat at the piano there and played a classical piece, feeling the house respond.
A few weeks later she approached an estate agent. I want to buy that house, she told him. He looked stunned. It needs a massive renovation.
Thats exactly why I want it, Emily replied.
Eight months later, after a full restoration, the house opened as a cosy retirement home for lonely seniors. In the spacious sitting room stood the piano, surrounded by plush sofas and armchairs. The first residents were Mr. Ivan Simmons, and two ladies, Anne and Gladys, sisters whod lost their home in a fire. More came as word spread.
Emily often played classical tunes on request. Emily, could you play something for us? theyd ask.
Shed lose herself in the music, feeling Margarets presence in every note, hearing a faint, approving whisper: Well done, love.
Emily became the beloved owner of The Community House. Journalists visited, writing glowing pieces about the sanctuary shed created.
Did you ever regret selling the jewellery? one asked.
Not a bit, Emily smiled. Seeing these elders happy, knitting socks, playing chess, its priceless. I know Margaret would be proud of how I used her legacy. Ive gained love and kindness instead of just wealth.
Two years later Emily married Stephen, a warmhearted man who gladly helped run the place. Together they manage the home, sharing its warmth with everyone who walks through the door.
