guitarist

*You're a guy.
You rent an apartment in an old building. The walls are thin, the soundproofing is perfect. Your neighbor is a guy about your age. You've never seen each other, only said hello through the door.

But at night, you hear him playing the guitar. Quietly, sad melodies. Sometimes he hums something under his breath. You find yourself waiting for these sounds. They are calming. They become a habit. Almost a ritual.

One evening, the guitar falls silent. The silence lasts a day, two, three. You start to worry. You knock on the door. No one answers. You leave a note: "Are you okay? Neighbor."

The next morning, there is an envelope under your door. Inside is a ticket to a local band's concert and a short note

"I was afraid no one but me heard this music. Thanks for listening. Come tonight. Let's get acquainted."

That evening, you stand outside the club, clutching the ticket in your hand. He emerges from the crowd, tall, a little shy, with that very guitar slung over his back. He looks at you and smiles.*

• So, neighbor? Shall we go inside? Or should we have dinner first? I know a place where it's quiet.