Six months ago, Galina’s elderly neighbor, Ethel, passed away. Her husband, Albert, was left alone. He grew sad, hunched, and shrunken, as if the weight of grief pressed him into the earth. He barely stepped outside. The neighbors pitied him—some brought soup, others fetched groceries from the shop.
Albert was hard of hearing and forgetful. He’d settle by the telly, turn the volume up loud, and forget the kettle boiling on the stove. Once, he nearly started a fire. After that, Galina kept a spare key to his flat.
Then his son came and took him away, putting the flat up for sale. The neighbors were relieved—no one should die alone when family’s still alive.
Three weeks later, a new owner moved in. The whole building knew at once—workmen arrived, tearing out old plumbing, hauling away blackened furniture. The drilling, hammering, endless noise—who could bear it? Galina lived right next door.
Returning from work, she’d dread the racket greeting her on the stairs. She endured it—until she couldn’t. She marched over. The door opened to a man covered in dust and paint.
“You the owner? How much longer will this noise go on? I can’t take it anymore—my head’s splitting,” she snapped.
“Sorry, love. Told to finish quick. Two more days of noise, then it’s just finishing touches—quieter stuff.”
“Two days?” Galina was speechless.
The drill roared back to life behind the door. She stormed outside, where the noise dulled.
“Neighbor driving you mad?” asked one of the women on the bench by the door.
“Have you seen him?” Galina countered.
“Oh yes,” they chimed. “Proper gent—well-dressed, expensive cologne. Handsome, polite, always says hello.”
“Such a lovely neighbor we’ve got,” crooned toothless Edna, her grin exposing metal crowns and dentures.
The others cackled, flashing their own dental disasters.
“Rather he played the trumpet,” Galina muttered.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Did. No use—workmen don’t care.”
“You ought to get a proper look at him, Galina. Fine catch. Too young to stay alone—still time for babies. And loaded—drives a posh Mercedes.”
“I’m off to the shops,” Galina said, ignoring the chatter behind her.
Her husband had died two years after their wedding. No children. Thirteen years alone.
*Probably visits when I’m at work. Complaining’s pointless—the flat’s a wreck. But just wait till he moves in. I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine,* she thought, stepping over a puddle.
Two days later, they finally met. Galina trudged home, desperate to collapse. A brutal shift left her too tired to eat. As she reached the door, it swung open.
A man stood there—early thirties, perfect teeth, a smirk that grated her. His gaze oozed arrogance.
“Thanks,” she said coldly, brushing past.
The door shut. Footsteps echoed in the dim hall. Her pulse quickened. She spun around—there he was, following.
“Go ahead. I hate being followed,” she snapped, masking fear with irritation.
He passed her, climbing the stairs. The building—old, central, high ceilings—was prime real estate.
On the fourth floor, he waited by his door.
“So, you’re my neighbor? Workers said you came by—shouted at them.”
“I *asked* them to keep it down. We’re living on a construction site,” she said, digging for her keys.
“My apologies. Nearly done,” he said smoothly.
She shot him a glare, slammed her door so hard plaster dust rained from the ceiling.
From then on, every door-slam was her revenge. She relished imagining his smirk wiped away.
A week later, furniture arrived. Movers blocked the stairs hauling a sofa. Galina squeezed past, glimpsing honey-toned floors, pale walls—
“Care to come in?” He appeared in the doorway. She flushed, caught peeking. She hurried inside, forgetting to slam the door. *Damn it.*
On her birthday, Galina hosted a quiet evening with her friend Maggie, who arrived late, filling the flat with noise and laughter.
“Blast—forgot wine. Can’t open champagne,” Galina groaned.
“Any male neighbors?” Maggie grinned.
“Next door, but—”
Maggie was already at the door. Minutes later, she returned with him—jeans, rolled sleeves, a checked shirt.
He popped the cork effortlessly. Maggie, behind him, mimed swooning, clutching her heart.
“It’s Galina’s birthday. Cooked enough for a wedding, no one to eat it,” Maggie announced.
Galina shot her a look. *Since when do you host?*
He filled glasses, raised his. “To the lovely lady of the house.”
Galina nearly choked. She’d dressed up—curled hair, lipstick, mascara. She *did* look good.
Maggie clung to him, piling his plate, stealing dances, pressing close. Galina fled to the kitchen before she cried.
Five minutes later, Maggie burst in, fanning herself.
“Had your fill?” Galina muttered.
“Galina, he’s *dreamy*,” Maggie sighed. “You said you weren’t interested—mind if I have a go?”
“Take him,” Galina said, voice tight.
“We’ll be neighbors—imagine that!”
“He *proposed*?”
“Not yet. But he’s got friends—we’ll find you one too,” Maggie trilled.
“He’s got a blonde girlfriend. Not like us—over forty.”
“Liar,” Maggie shrieked.
“True. Hollywood-level beauty.”
Maggie’s lashes fluttered. Crushed.
Then he appeared. “I must go. Happy birthday again.”
Maggie pounced. “Any chance of a lift? Had a bit too much.”
“Of course.” He glanced at Galina.
After they left, Galina sobbed. *Some friend. Stole him right under my nose.*
She cleaned up, showered, towel on her head—when the bell rang. Thinking Maggie had returned, she yanked the door open.
There he stood, holding roses.
“Forgot your gift earlier. Happy birthday.”
The scent overwhelmed her. She forgot her robe, the towel.
“Tea and cake?” he offered, stepping inside.
She had no choice. At the stove, she caught her reflection—wet curls tumbling loose.
Over tea, he spoke of divorce, years in Scotland, buying this flat—like his childhood home.
“The blonde?” Galina asked.
“My daughter. Ex-wife remarried, moved away.”
“Maggie fancied you. She’s pretty, no?”
“Didn’t notice. Reminds me of my ex.” He frowned.
Then he looked at her—*really* looked. Her skin prickled.
That night, she lay awake. *Don’t waste your chance,* her mother’s voice whispered.
“I won’t,” she murmured, drifting off.
Next morning, rain poured. She turned back for an umbrella—but he appeared.
“Wait here. I’ll fetch the car.”
At the traffic light, rain blurred the world. It felt like they were alone on an island.
Then the wipers swept the glass clear—the moment gone.
At work, Maggie pounced. “Did he ask about me?”
“Said you remind him of his ex,” Galina said smugly.
The next day, he invited her to the theatre.
“Ten minutes. I’ll wait in the car.”
She dressed up, let her hair down. His admiring glance warmed her.
After the show, they walked home. He invited her in for champagne. She’d never tasted anything so sweet. They danced—his hands hot, his gaze melting her.
Two months later, he proposed.
“Could knock through—merge the flats.”
“Never. Our son will want his own space.”
“*Our* son? Sure?”
“Yes.”
A story of love found after loss. Some meet their fate young; others find it through heartache. People love, die, new ones come—and love again.
*Love endures. Lovers change.*
