When I moved into Maple Lane, I wasn’t looking for peace.
I was running away from chaos.
After my father’s death and my breakup in the same month, Delhi’s noise became unbearable. My friends said moving to the outskirts was an overreaction, but I just wanted silence — the kind that didn’t echo with old memories.
The house I rented was small but cozy, surrounded by jasmine bushes and a half-broken white fence. Across the lane stood an old bungalow with faded blue paint, a rusty gate, and an air of quiet melancholy.
That was Mr. Roy’s house — my mysterious neighbor.
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1. The First Glance
The first time I saw him, he was watering his plants in the early morning.
Thin, gray-haired, dressed in a simple sweater despite the heat. His eyes had that faraway look of someone watching memories instead of flowers.
I smiled politely, but he didn’t respond. He just nodded and went back to his roses.
Later that day, when I asked the grocery delivery boy about him, he said,
“Mr. Roy? Lives alone. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Used to be a schoolteacher. People say he lost his family in an accident.”
That explained the sadness.
I didn’t mean to intrude, but curiosity is a writer’s disease.
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2. The Sound of Piano
On my third night there, I couldn’t sleep. The fan creaked, the clock ticked too loud, and my mind refused to quiet down. Then, through the still air, came the soft sound of a piano.
It was beautiful — tender but broken, like rain falling on old glass.
The notes trembled, as if the player was remembering something painful.
The next morning, I saw Mr. Roy again.
I gathered courage and said, “Your piano sounds lovely. You play beautifully.”
He looked up, startled.
For a moment, I thought he’d ignore me again. But then he gave the faintest smile.
“My daughter used to play,” he said softly. “I’m only trying to remember how she did.”
Before I could say anything, he turned and went inside.
That was the first real conversation we had — and it lingered in my mind all day.
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3. Tea and Memories
Over the next few weeks, small things changed.
I started seeing him outside more often — trimming plants, feeding the stray cats, sitting on the porch in the evening.
Sometimes I’d wave, and he’d nod. Then one day, I baked a small cake (not perfectly, but edible) and took it to him.
He opened the door slowly, suspicion in his eyes.
“I just wanted to thank you for the music,” I said awkwardly. “It helps me write.”
He looked at the cake, then at me. “No one has knocked on this door in years,” he murmured.
And that’s how I found myself sitting on his old wooden chair, sipping tea made with too much sugar and listening to stories about a world that no longer existed.
He told me about his wife, Meera, who died ten years ago of cancer, and his daughter, Riya — a pianist who had gone to London for her studies but never returned. A car crash. One rainy night. Gone in seconds.
“I sold the piano once,” he said quietly. “But the man who came to buy it told me to keep it. Said it wasn’t just wood and keys — it was memory.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Grief has no language. Only silence and tea.
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4. The Writer and the Teacher
Mr. Roy became my unspoken companion.
I’d write on my porch while he read newspapers on his. Sometimes he’d correct my grammar jokingly or offer me old books from his shelf.
One afternoon, he asked to read my draft — a short story about loss and second chances.
He read it carefully, then said, “You write pain beautifully. But remember — real healing isn’t when the pain stops hurting. It’s when you stop hiding it.”
I smiled. “You sound like a teacher.”
“I used to be one,” he said, his eyes soft. “And you sound like someone who needs to listen.”
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5. The Rainy Day
That September evening, it rained heavily.
Thunder rolled, power went out, and the streetlights flickered. I was lighting a candle when I heard a loud crash outside.
I ran out — Mr. Roy’s gate had collapsed, and he was struggling to lift it.
Without thinking, I rushed to help him.
We dragged the heavy iron aside and ran into his porch, both soaked to the bone. I laughed — a wild, silly laugh that came from pure adrenaline.
He looked at me, surprised — then, for the first time, truly laughed.
Not the polite smile he used to give, but a deep, real laugh that made his eyes shine.
It was such a human, raw moment — two broken people finding a flicker of warmth in the middle of a storm.
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6. The Forgotten Piano
After that day, Mr. Roy started talking more.
He told me about his teaching days, about Riya’s childhood performances, about the time Meera used to sing along.
But he never touched the piano again.
It sat in the corner of his drawing room, covered with a dusty cloth.
One afternoon, when he was napping, I lifted the cover. The piano looked old but graceful — like something that still had stories left to tell.
When he woke up, I asked gently, “Why don’t you play again?”
He stared at it for a long time. “Because every time I do, I hear her.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” I said quietly.
He didn’t reply. But the next evening, as I sat writing, I heard the piano again — soft, hesitant, but alive.
It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.
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7. Letters Never Sent
A few days later, he called me over.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
From a wooden box, he pulled out a bundle of yellowed letters — all addressed to Riya.
“I used to write to her every month,” he said, voice trembling. “Even after she died. Just… never posted them.”
He handed one to me.
The handwriting was neat, careful — My dearest Riya, today I planted marigolds. You always said they looked like sunlight…
My eyes blurred.
He smiled faintly. “Would you help me do something foolish?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s post them,” he said. “All of them. Maybe not to London, but somewhere they can rest.”
So we did. We walked to the nearest park and buried the letters beneath a tree full of yellow flowers.
When he stood up, his shoulders looked lighter.
“Goodbye, beta,” he whispered. “Finally.”
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8. A Winter Without Him
That December, he fell sick.
It started with a cough, then weakness, then endless hospital visits. I stayed by his side as much as I could, reading to him from his favorite books, playing soft piano tunes on my phone.
One night, he looked at me and said, “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When I go, don’t write about my death. Write about my life.”
I nodded, tears burning my throat. “You’ll be fine.”
He smiled. “I already am. You brought life back to this house.”
He passed away two days later — peacefully, in his sleep.
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9. The New Beginning
After his funeral, I couldn’t bear to see his house locked and silent again. So I asked his lawyer if I could rent it for a while — just to keep it alive.
He agreed.
I moved my desk into his drawing room, next to the piano.
And that’s where I wrote my first novel — “The House Next Door.”
It wasn’t just about him. It was about finding family in unexpected places, about healing that doesn’t erase pain but transforms it.
Sometimes, when I pause between sentences, I imagine hearing the faint sound of piano keys, or a soft voice correcting my grammar from somewhere unseen.
Maybe it’s just my imagination.
Or maybe, some bonds never really break — they just change form.
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10. Epilogue: The Roses Bloom Again
A year later, the jasmine bushes bloomed brighter than ever.
Children played in the lane, laughter filling the air.
Every evening, I light a candle by the window facing his old chair.
It’s not mourning anymore — it’s remembrance.
The world keeps moving, but some houses never forget.
They hold stories within their walls, waiting for someone to listen.
And sometimes, all it takes…
is a girl looking for peace,
and a lonely man waiting for someone to knock.
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Written by Tanya Singh
