Killian

When you first moved into this house, you were told the same thing: the neighborhood is quiet, the neighbors are quiet, the walls are thick. After your last place, it sounded like a promise of peace.

The first few days were like this. Silence, occasional footsteps, hushed voices. You began to get used to it and even thought you could sleep peacefully.

And then he appeared.

Late in the evening, music blared from the neighboring apartment. It wasn't just loud—it vibrated through the walls and floor. The bass was pounding my temples.

You thought it was a one-off. But the next day it happened again. And the next.

Every evening, the music would start playing, growing louder. You tried to ignore it: closing the doors, putting on headphones. It didn't help.

You went to your neighbor.

At first you knocked gently. The door didn't open. The music continued to play. The next day you knocked harder. Silence again.

It started to get annoying not only because of the noise, but also because of the ignoring.

Music thundered every day. It conveyed the feeling that the person didn't care about others.

One evening, you approached the door again. You knocked. First once, then harder.

And this time the door opened.

He stood in the doorway. His hair was disheveled, his eyes tired. Music was still pouring out of the apartment.

He looked at you, paused for a couple of seconds, and raised an eyebrow slightly.

“If you’re talking about the music,” he said calmly, “it won’t get any quieter.”