Six months ago, Galina’s elderly neighbor, Margaret, passed away. Her husband, Arthur, was left alone. He sank into grief, hunched over as if the weight of sorrow was pressing him into the ground. He barely left the house. The neighbors pitied him—some brought him soup, others ran errands for him.
Arthur was a bit deaf and forgetful. He’d sit in front of the telly with the volume cranked up and forget the kettle boiling on the stove. Once, he nearly started a fire—and could’ve choked on the smoke. 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 they’ve got family.
Three weeks later, the flat had a new owner. The whole building knew because workmen swarmed in, tearing out old pipes, chucking out decades of grime and furniture. Day after day, the hammering, drilling, and banging echoed through the walls. Galina lived right next door.
Coming home from work became unbearable. The racket greeted her on the stairs. She gritted her teeth until she couldn’t take it anymore, then marched over. The door opened to a bloke covered in dust and paint.
“Are the owner? How much longer will this go on? My head’s splitting,” she snapped.
“Sorry, love, but I’ve got orders to finish quick. Two more days of noise, then it’s just the quiet bits,” he said.
“Two days?” Galina was too stunned to argue.
The drill roared back to life behind the door. Galina stepped outside—at least the noise was muffled there.
“New neighbor driving you mad?” one of the women on the bench by the door called out.
“Have you seen him?” Galina shot back.
“Oh yes,” they chimed in. “Proper handsome, he is. Dresses sharp, smells lovely—polite, too. Always says hello.”
“We’ve got a right catch moving in,” cackled toothless Doris.
The others laughed, flashing their gold fillings and dentures.
“Rather he played the violin,” Galina muttered.
“Did you talk to him?”
“I did. Fat lot of good—it’s the workmen making the noise.”
“Galina, love, you ought to take a proper look at him. He’s a real catch. How long’ve you been on your own? You’re still young—plenty of time for kids. And he’s loaded—drives a posh car and all.”
“I’m off to the shops,” Galina said, striding away before they could say more.
Her husband had died two years after they married. No kids. Thirteen years alone.
“Probably visits when I’m at work. No use complaining—flats need renovating. The old couple’s place was a wreck. Just wait till he moves in—I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine,” she thought, sidestepping a puddle.
Two days later, they finally met. Galina trudged home, desperate to collapse. Work had been brutal—she wasn’t even hungry. As she reached the door, it swung open.
A tall, grinning bloke stood there—all thirty-two teeth on display. She knew instantly: the new owner. His smile felt cocky, his gaze smug.
“Thanks,” she said stiffly, brushing past.
The door shut behind her. Footsteps echoed in the dim hallway. Her pulse jumped. She spun around—there he was, following her.
“Go ahead. I hate people breathing down my neck,” she snapped, masking her nerves.
He passed her, heading upstairs. The building was old, central, with spacious flats—high ceilings, big rooms. Prime real estate.
By the fourth floor, he was waiting at his door.
“So you’re my neighbor? Pleasure. The workers said you gave them an earful.”
“I asked them to keep it down. The whole building’s a construction site.” She fumbled for her keys.
“My bad. Nearly done, promise.”
She shot him a glare, slammed her door hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
From then on, every chance she got, she slammed it—her petty revenge. She pictured his grin vanishing.
A week later, furniture arrived. Movers blocked the stairs hauling up a sofa. Galina squeezed past, catching a glimpse inside—light walls, honey-colored floors…
“Fancy a look?” He appeared in the doorway. She flushed, as if caught peeping, and scurried inside—forgetting to slam the door. Damn.
On her birthday, her mate Lizzie came over, late as usual. The flat buzzed with laughter as they settled at the table.
“Blast—forgot the wine. I’m rubbish with corkscrews,” Galina groaned.
“Any blokes next door?” Lizzie wiggled her brows.
“There’s—” Before Galina could finish, Lizzie bolted out.
Two minutes later, she returned with the neighbor—now in jeans and a checked shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He popped the champagne effortlessly. Lizzie, behind his back, mimed swooning, thumbs up, clutching her heart. Message clear: *He’s fit.*
“Gal’s birthday. Cooked a feast, no one to share it with,” Lizzie announced.
Galina shot her a *shut it* look, but the neighbor just smiled, filled their glasses, and toasted, “To the lovely host—and neighbor!”
Galina nearly choked. She’d dressed up—curled her hair, done her makeup. She *did* look good.
Lizzie shamelessly flirted, piling his plate, glued to his side. Galina burned with embarrassment—till Lizzie dragged him to dance, pressing close, batting her lashes.
Galina fled to the kitchen, fighting tears. *He’s mine—not hers.*
Five minutes later, Lizzie busted in, fanning herself.
“Had your fill?” Galina hissed.
“Gal, he’s *dreamy*. Dances like a god. You said you weren’t keen—mind if I have a go?” She winked.
“Take him,” Galina said, voice cracking.
“Imagine—we’d be neighbors! Married life side by side!”
“He *proposed*?”
“Not yet. But he’s got mates—we’ll find you one too.”
“He’s got a blonde girlfriend. Hollywood-level. Not for the likes of us.”
Lizzie’s mascaraed lashes fluttered. “Liar.”
Just then, he peered in. “I’d better dash. Happy birthday again. Lovely meeting you.” He smiled at Galina.
Lizzie pounced. “Any chance of a lift? Had a bit much—legs won’t hold me.”
“Of course. Be ready in a minute.” He glanced at Galina.
After they left, Galina wept. *Some mate. Stole him right under my nose.*
She cleaned up, showered, wrapped herself in a robe and towel. Then—a knock. Thinking Lizzie had returned, she flung the door open.
He stood there, holding a massive bouquet of roses.
“Came empty-handed earlier. Happy birthday.”
The scent enveloped her. She’d forgotten her state—robe, wet hair piled under the towel.
“Fancy tea and cake?” He made no move to leave.
Trapped, she invited him in. As the kettle boiled, she caught her reflection—tugged off the towel, damp curls tumbling loose.
Over tea, he shared his story: divorced, lived in Scotland awhile, but missed home. Bought this flat—it reminded him of his childhood. His sister lived in his old place now.
“The blonde?” Galina asked.
“My daughter. Ex remarried, moved away. She’s at uni—visits often.”
“Lizzie fancies you. She’s pretty, yeah?”
“Suppose. Didn’t notice. She looks like my ex.” He wrinkled his nose—then held Galina’s gaze. Her skin prickled; her stomach fluttered.
That night, she lay awake. *Don’t miss your chance,* her mum’s voice whispered.
“I won’t,” she vowed, drifting off.
Morning brought rain. She wanted her umbrella—but he stepped out.
“Wait here. I’ll fetch the car—drive you to work.”
She barely protested. The downpour thickened. At a red light, the world blurred beyond the rain-streaked glass. It felt like they were alone on an island. She could’ve stayed forever.
Then he flicked the wipers on—the cozy spell broken.
At the office, Lizzie pounced. “Did he ask about me?”
“Said you look like his ex,” Galina replied smugly.
Next evening, he invited her to the theatre. “Ten minutes. I’ll wait in the car.”
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, talking easily. On the fourth floor, he invited her in to see the finished flat. As she admired the walls, heThey married by summer, and when their son was born, the whole building rejoiced—love had found its way home again.
