My Neighbor

When I first moved to Maplewood Lane, the last thing I had hoped was to be fascinated by the man who lived next door. His name was a silver-haired man in the late 1960, and was always a proper combination and cloak in the 1970. He lived alone in a house that seemed as mysterious as his. The curtains were constantly pulled during the day, and the garden wasn't oddly perfect, but it didn't look like there was a gardener there.

When I first saw him, I released a box from the back of the car. He stood on the veranda, drank tea in his hand and watched quietly. He waved and smiled. He just nodded, turned around and came back.

In the coming weeks, we have heard a strange and strange sound from his house, to strange times. Not the usual creaks and moans of the old building, but the mechanical total, a gentle click, which I swear to sound like a harp. Curiosity one day made me better, and I knocked on his door under the pretext and borrowed sugar. He just opened it and was enough to see the shaded interior behind him. He gave me a few glasses without saying a word to me and shut the door before I could thank him.

As all neighbors have, it would have been easy to call him another hermit. But one morning, I saw him in the park. He sat on the bench to feed the birds and hummed old jazz songs. He had a kindness that I had never expected. I sat a few meters away, and he spoke for the first time. "You just moved," he turned to the bird.

"Yes, a few weeks ago," I replied. "It's a quiet area."

"It wasn't always," he said with a weak smile. "They were kids everywhere."

He hadn't said any more that day, but then we began greeting with nods and quiet "good morning." It felt like progress.

Then a stormy night passed, and power passed through the neighbourhood. I lighted some candles and got involved in the book, but knocked on the door and scared me. Mr. Devlin was soaking and holding a flashlight.

"Are you okay?" He asked. "Yes, it's just dark. You?"

"My safety box has disappeared. Do you want to wait a little? "

I greeted him and made tea for us."I don't really like that," he muttered.

And he told me about the story of the next hour. About how he was a music teacher. About his wife, who passed away 10 years ago. There were different plans in life as to whether they always wanted to withdraw at sea.

He told me about his students - like one of them, a famous cellist, was about someone else bringing him cookies every Friday after class. His eyes glowed as he spoke, and the mysterious man next to him suddenly felt very human and very realistic.

When the lights came back in, he stood up.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the sake of the company."

After that night, everything changed. Mr. Devlin began waving when he saw me. He began to leave small gifts at my front door: fresh herbs from his garden, a wooden spoon carved in hand, even in the once warm bread. I responded to my favor with muffins, flowers and finally with dinner invitations.

He taught me how to accept tomatoes and how to listen to music correctly - to not only hear them, but to feel them. He had an old turntable and hundreds of vinyl. We spent many nights listening to Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and Mozart.

Over the course of time, I realized how much difference he made in my life. He reminded me that everyone has the layers, stories, and pain that carry quietly. I was next to me from a strange neighbor to take care of my friend.

Last winter, Mr. Devlin died peacefully in his sleep. I was the one who found him. I had a note on his kitchen table. So,

"Thank you for meeting me."

Now, every time I pass by his house, I think about this stormy night, the stories he shared, and the music that brought us together. I'm still playing his records. I'm still making tomatoes his way. And sometimes when the wind is right, I swear that this old jazz melody can be bustling out of the park.