Six months ago, Galina’s elderly neighbor passed away. Her husband was left alone. He grew sorrowful, hunched over as if the weight of grief bent him toward the ground. He rarely stepped outside. The neighbors pitied him—some brought him soup, others fetched groceries from the shop.
He was hard of hearing and forgetful. He’d sit by the telly, turn the volume up full blast, and forget the kettle boiling on the stove. Once, he nearly started a fire and could have suffocated. Since then, Galina kept a spare key to his flat.
One day, his son arrived 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, the flat had a new owner. The whole building knew at once when workmen arrived to renovate. Day after day, they hauled out rubbish, blackened plumbing, and old furniture. Then came the endless drilling, hammering, and banging. Who could stand such noise? Galina lived just next door.
She dreaded coming home from work. The racket greeted her on the stairs. She endured it as long as she could before marching over. The door swung open to reveal a man covered in dust and paint.
“Are the owner? How much longer will this go on? I can’t take it anymore—my head’s splitting,” she snapped.
“Sorry, love, but I’ve got orders to finish quick. Two more days of noise, then it’ll just be the finishing touches,” he replied.
“Two days?” Galina was speechless.
The drill whirred back to life behind the closed door. She retreated outside, where the noise faded.
“Neighbor driving you mad?” asked one of the women perched on the bench by the entrance.
“Have you seen him?” Galina countered.
“Oh yes,” the women chimed in. “Proper gentleman—well-dressed, expensive cologne. Handsome, polite, always says hello.”
“What a lovely neighbor we’ve got,” crooned toothless Polly, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The others cackled, flashing gaps, gold crowns, and dentures.
“Would’ve preferred a bloody flute player,” Galina muttered.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I did. Fat lot of good. It’s the workmen making the noise, not him.”
“You ought to have a proper look at him, Galina,” one urged. “He’s a catch. Why stay single? You’re still young—could have kids yet. And he’s loaded—drives a posh car.”
“I’m off to the shops,” Galina said, striding away before they could say more.
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 needs work. The old couple let it go to rot. Just wait till he moves in—I’ll give him a piece of my mind,* she thought, sidestepping a puddle.
Two days later, they finally met properly. Exhausted from work, Galina trudged home, desperate to collapse into bed. As she reached the door, it swung open.
A young man stood there, grinning widely. She knew at once—this was the new owner. His smile struck her as cocky, his gaze arrogant.
“Thanks,” she said flatly, brushing past.
The door clicked shut. Footsteps echoed behind her in the dim hallway. Her pulse quickened. Swallowing fear, she spun around.
“Go ahead. I don’t like people breathing down my neck,” she snapped, masking her unease.
He passed her, climbing the stairs. The building was old, central, with spacious flats and high ceilings—prime property.
On the fourth floor, he waited by his door.
“So you’re my neighbor? Pleasure. The lads mentioned you gave them an earful.”
“I *asked* them to keep it down. The whole block’s suffering,” she said, rummaging for her keys.
“My bad. Nearly done, promise.”
She shot him a glare, slammed her door so hard plaster dust rained from the ceiling.
From then on, she slammed it at every chance—her petty revenge. She relished imagining his smile faltering.
A week later, new furniture arrived. Movers blocked the stairs hauling up a sofa. Galina squeezed past, catching a glimpse of honey-toned floors, pale wallpaper…
“Fancy a look?” The owner appeared in the doorway. She flushed, as if caught peeking through the keyhole, and hurried inside—forgetting to slam the door. *Damn.*
Her birthday fell on a weekend. She’d celebrate with coworkers Monday, but tonight was just her and her mate Masha.
Masha arrived late, filling the flat with laughter. They settled at the table.
“Blast—forgot wine. I’m hopeless with champagne,” Galina admitted.
“Any blokes next door?” Masha winked.
“Well, yes, but—”
Masha was already hammering on his door.
She returned with the neighbor in tow—jeans, checked shirt rolled to the elbows. He greeted them, popped the champagne effortlessly. Behind his back, Masha mimed swooning, thumbs up, clutching her heart. *Message received.*
“Gal’s birthday! Cooked enough for a wedding, and no one to share it with,” Masha announced.
Galina shot her a look. *Since when are you hostess?* But the neighbor sat, filled their glasses, and raised his: “To our lovely neighbor!”
Galina nearly choked. She’d curled her hair, done her makeup—looked her best.
Masha fawned over him, piling his plate, batting her lashes. Galina burned with shame—and envy. *He’s mine to fancy, not yours.* When Masha dragged him to dance, pressing close, Galina fled to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, Masha burst in, fanning herself.
“Had your fill?” Galina muttered.
“Gal, he’s *dreamy*,” Masha sighed. “If you’re not keen, mind if I have a go?”
“Knock yourself out,” Galina said, fighting tears.
“Imagine—we’d be neighbors! You could find someone too—bet he’s got mates.”
“He’s got a blonde. Not like us forty-somethings,” Galina lied.
“Liar!”
“Hollywood’s got nothing on her.”
Masha’s mascaraed lashes fluttered. Deflated.
The neighbor appeared. “I’d best be off. Happy birthday—lovely to meet you.” He smiled at Galina.
Masha pounced. “Any chance of a lift? Had a bit too much…”
“Of course. Be ready in a minute.” His eyes flicked to Galina.
After they left, she sobbed. *Some friend. Stole him right under my nose.*
She cleaned up, showered, wrapped herself in a robe. A knock—Masha back to apologize? She yanked the door open.
The neighbor stood there, holding a massive bouquet.
“Came empty-handed earlier. Happy birthday.”
Drowning in rose scent, she forgot her disheveled state.
“Fancy tea and cake?” he asked, making no move to leave.
Trapped, she invited him in. As the kettle boiled, she caught her reflection—damp curls tumbling loose.
Over tea, he shared his story: divorced, lived in Scotland awhile, missed the city. Bought this flat—like his childhood home.
“The blonde?” Galina ventured.
“My daughter. Ex remarried, moved away. She’s at uni—visits often.”
“Masha fancies you. She’s pretty, yeah?”
“Suppose. Didn’t notice. Reminds me of his ex.” He wrinkled his nose—then locked eyes with her. Her skin prickled.
That night, Galina lay awake. *Don’t let this slip away,* her mother’s voice whispered.
“I won’t,” she vowed, drifting off.
Morning brought rain. She hesitated—go back for an umbrella?—when he appeared.
“Wait here. I’ll fetch the car.”
The downpour thickened. At a red light, the wipers cleared the glass—breaking the cozy illusion of just the two of them.
*Why’d I ask if his wipers work?*
At the office, Masha pestered her.
“Did he mention me?”
“Said you remind him of his ex,” Galina said smugly.
Next evening, he invited her to the theater.
“Ten minutes. I’ll be outside.”
She slipped into a new dress, left her hair down, swiped on mascara and lipstick. His appreciative glance warmed her.
After the show, they walked home. On the fourth floor, he invited her in. As she admired the renovations, he poured champagne. The best she’d ever tasted. They danced—his gaze, his touch melting her like wax…
Two months later, he proposed.
“Could knock through—join the flats?”
“Absolutely not. Our son will want his own space someday.”
“*Our* son?She laughed as he swept her into his arms, knowing their love had found its way through the noise and chaos, and that their story was only just beginning.
