Six months ago, Evelyn’s elderly neighbour passed away. Her husband was left alone, hunched under the weight of grief, barely stepping outside. The neighbours pitied him—some brought soup, others fetched groceries from the shop.
He was hard of hearing and forgetful. He’d turn the telly up full blast and forget the kettle on the stove. Once, he nearly started a fire. After that, Evelyn kept a spare key to his flat.
Then his son arrived and moved him away, putting the flat up for sale. The neighbours were relieved—no one should die alone when family’s alive.
Three weeks later, the flat had a new owner. The whole building knew—workmen hauled out old furniture, blackened pipes, and junk. Hammers banged, drills whirred. Evelyn, living next door, couldn’t bear it.
One evening, she marched over. A dust-covered man opened the door.
“Are the owner? How much longer will this noise go on? I can’t take it,” she snapped.
“Sorry, love. Boss wants it done quick. Two more days, then it’s just finishing touches.”
“Two days?” Evelyn was speechless.
The drill roared again. She stormed outside, where the noise faded.
“New neighbour getting to you?” asked Margaret from the bench by the door.
“Have you seen him?” Evelyn countered.
“Oh yes,” the women chimed. “Polished, handsome, smells posh. Drives a flash car.”
“We’ve got a proper catch in our building,” cackled toothless Doris.
The others laughed, flashing gold fillings and dentures.
“Rather he played the violin,” Evelyn muttered.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“What’s the point? It’s the workmen making the racket.”
“Evelyn, love, you should take a proper look at him,” Margaret teased. “Fine man, plenty of money. You’re still young—could have a baby yet.”
Evelyn walked off, ignoring the chatter.
Her husband had died two years after their wedding. No children. Thirteen years alone.
*Probably visits when I’m at work. Complaining won’t help. The flat was a wreck—needed doing. Just wait till he moves in…*, she thought, sidestepping a puddle.
Two days later, they met properly. Exhausted from work, Evelyn trudged home. The front door swung open before she could reach it.
A man—early thirties, perfect teeth—smiled down at her. That arrogant grin told her exactly who he was.
“Thanks,” she said curtly, brushing past.
Footsteps followed in the dim hallway. Her pulse jumped. She spun around.
“After you. I hate people breathing down my neck,” she snapped, masking her nerves.
He passed her, taking the stairs two at a time. The building was old, central, with high ceilings—prime real estate.
On the fourth floor, he waited by his door.
“So, you’re my neighbour? The workmen mentioned you—gave them an earful.”
“I *asked* them to keep it down. The whole block’s suffering.” She rummaged for her keys.
“My apologies. Nearly done.” His calm grated.
She slammed her door so hard plaster dust rained from the ceiling.
After that, she made a point of slamming it whenever possible. Petty, but imagining his smile faltering pleased her.
A week later, furniture arrived. Movers blocked the stairs hauling up a sofa. Peeking past them, Evelyn caught a glimpse of honey-coloured floors, cream walls—
“Fancy a proper look?”
She flushed—*caught staring*—and bolted inside, forgetting to slam the door. *Blast.*
Her birthday fell on a weekend. Just her and best mate Sarah for now; office do Monday.
Sarah arrived late, filling the flat with laughter. They settled at the table.
“Forgot the wine. Can’t open champagne to save my life,” Evelyn sighed.
“Any men next door?” Sarah winked.
“But—”
Sarah was already knocking.
Two minutes later, she returned with the neighbour—rolled sleeves, checked shirt, effortless charm. He popped the cork while Sarah mimed *heart-eyes* behind his back.
“Ev’s birthday! Cooked enough for an army,” Sarah announced.
Evelyn shot her a glare.
Unfazed, he filled their glasses. “To the lovely hostess—and neighbour.”
Evelyn nearly choked. She’d dressed up—curled hair, lipstick.
Sarah clung to him, piling his plate, dragging him to dance. Pressed close, giggling.
Humiliated, Evelyn fled to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, Sarah burst in, fanning herself.
“Enjoy yourself?” Evelyn snipped.
“Ev, he’s *dreamy*,” Sarah swooned. “You said you’re not into him—mind if I…” She waggled her brows.
“Take him,” Evelyn said, throat tight.
“We’ll be neighbours! Imagine!”
“Proposed already?”
“Give it time. He’s got mates—we’ll find you one.”
“He’s got a blonde half his age. Not like us forty-somethings.”
Sarah gasped. “Liar.”
“Hollywood-level gorgeous,” Evelyn lied.
Sarah deflated.
The neighbour appeared. “Must dash. Happy birthday.” His smile was for Evelyn alone.
Sarah pounced. “Any chance of a lift? Had a bit much…”
“Of course.”
As they left, Evelyn wept. *Some friend. Stole him right under my nose.*
She cleaned up, showered, wrapped herself in a robe—then the bell rang.
*Guilt’s got to Sarah*, she thought, yanking the door open.
He stood there, roses in hand.
“Came empty-handed earlier. Happy birthday.” The scent enveloped her.
“Tea?” he offered, stepping inside.
Trapped, she agreed.
Over cake, he talked—divorced, lived up north awhile but missed London. Bought this flat—just like his childhood home. Sister lives there now.
“The blonde?” Evelyn asked.
“My daughter.”
“Sarah liked you.”
“Did she? Reminds me of my ex.” His gaze warmed her skin.
That night, sleepless, Evelyn heard her mother’s voice: *Don’t miss your chance.*
“Won’t,” she whispered.
Next morning, rain poured. She nearly ducked back for an umbrella—
“Wait there,” he called, already jogging to his car.
At a red light, wipers struggling, the world blurred. They might’ve been the last two people alive.
“Do your wipers work?” she blurted.
The spell broke.
At work, Sarah pounced. “Did he ask about me?”
“Said you remind him of his ex.”
The next evening, he invited her to the theatre.
“Ten minutes. I’ll wait in the car.”
She threw on a new dress, loose curls, a swipe of mascara. His admiring glance sent a thrill through her.
After, walking home, he showed her the finished flat. Champagne, dancing—melting under his touch like candle wax.
Two months later, he proposed.
“Could knock through—join the flats.”
“No. Our son will want his own space.”
“Our son?”
“Yes.”
Some meet their match young. Others find love after loss. People come, go, love again.
Love endures. The lovers change.
