The Neighbor’s Note

Chapter One: Rain and Silence

Rain poured down like it had something to prove.

Ava Winters curled on her couch in Apartment 3B, listening to the storm batter the windows. The power had been out for hours. Her tea was cold, her book unread. Flickering candles cast long shadows over her tiny living room. Outside, the wind howled through the city like a creature searching for something.

Inside, there was only silence—and the rhythmic, constant pacing from the apartment above.

Thump. Thump. Pause. Thump.

She’d grown used to the sound.

Her mysterious upstairs neighbor in 4B had a routine. He walked when it rained. Always during storms. As if his soul couldn’t rest unless his feet were moving.

Ava didn’t know his name. She’d never seen his face. But she knew him by sound.

Sometimes, she’d hear music—soft jazz, piano instrumentals, even old vinyl records with that warm crackle of age. Sometimes it was classical, sometimes lo-fi beats. Once, she thought she heard him humming along to Nina Simone. That had made her smile.

She had lived there for eight months. Eight months of footsteps, distant songs, and unanswered questions.

And then, without warning, a folded note slid under her door.

Chapter Two: The Neighbor’s First Note

Ava blinked at the envelope.

Her name—just Ava, no last name, no apartment number—was scrawled across the front in slanted, ink-smudged handwriting.

She hesitated before opening it, her fingers trembling slightly.

“I heard you curse earlier. When you dropped your mug? It echoed like a shotgun through the floor. Sorry, I laughed. You have good comedic timing, even when you’re mad. I hate storms too. But there’s something nice about the quiet they leave behind. Hope your tea wasn’t important.”

Her lips parted in shock. Then slowly, they curled into a smile.

The pacing above resumed, softer now. She stared at the letter in her lap and read it again.

It was simple. Strangely honest.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so... intimate.

And without thinking, she reached for a pen.

Chapter Three: The Reply

“The tea was awful anyway. But your note made me smile. I didn’t hear your footsteps. Are you always this stealthy? Or just on secret missions to spy on neighbors?”

She folded the reply neatly and slid it under the edge of the hallway carpet just beneath the stairs—the only spot where 3B and 4B touched. It felt ridiculous and childlike, but also thrilling.

By the next morning, the note was gone.

And in its place… a new one.

“Stealth is part of the charm. I move quietly so the ghosts in the ceiling won’t follow me. Also, I’m a terrible spy. I’d make a better writer. Or maybe a recluse who writes notes to pretty strangers.”

Her cheeks flushed.

They wrote again. And again.

Every night, a new letter.

They didn’t exchange names. Just paper. Stories. Secrets.

He told her he played the piano once, but stopped when life grew too noisy.

She told him she wrote greeting cards by day, poems by night, and hadn’t shared either in years.

He sent her a riddle once. She solved it in five minutes.

She sent him a drawing of her cat dressed like Napoleon. He replied with a poem about how cats secretly rule the world.

She laughed out loud for the first time in weeks.

Chapter Four: Ink and Heartbeats

One note made her heart ache.

There are nights I stare out the window and wonder if the people in the opposite buildings can see me pretending to be okay. I’ve gotten very good at pretending.”

Her reply came quickly.

“You don’t have to pretend in ink. I see you. Even if I haven’t seen your face yet.”

He didn’t write back for two days.

Ava waited, every nerve on edge.

She listened for footsteps. For music. For the creak in the ceiling.

Nothing.

When the letter finally came, it wasn’t in an envelope. Just folded, fastened with a single piece of red string.

“That was dangerous. Letting someone see you. But maybe... I’ve always hoped someone would. And if it had to be anyone—I'm glad it’s you.”

She pressed the page to her chest.

She was falling.

For someone she’d never even seen.

Chapter Five: The Second Storm

Exactly two weeks later, the city plunged into darkness again. Thunder shook the walls. Rain smashed against windows like fists.

Ava lit her candles. Sat on the floor.

And waited.

No note came.

The quiet felt different. Not peaceful.

Lonely.

She checked the staircase. Left a letter.

“If you’re still there, I hope you’re okay. If something scared you away… I wish I had your name before you left.”

She waited.

Minutes passed.

An hour.

Then—three knocks.

From above.

Soft. Intentional. Answering.

She smiled through a rush of tears.

And just like before… another letter slipped under the door.

“Come to the rooftop. Don’t bring your phone. Just your curiosity. And maybe an extra blanket. It’s cold.”

Her heart nearly exploded in her chest.

Chapter Six: The Rooftop Meeting

The rooftop was dripping from the storm, puddles glistening under scattered fairy lights someone had left behind long ago.

He stood near the edge, wearing a grey hoodie and faded jeans, hands tucked in his pockets.

He turned as she stepped out.

They just stared.

It was like meeting a character you’d been writing for months—only to find he’d been writing you, too.

He smiled first.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” she whispered.

He nodded at the blanket in her arms. “You followed instructions.”

“You were lucky I didn’t bring pepper spray.”

He chuckled, and it was the same laugh she’d once heard through the floorboards.

They sat side by side on a bench, her blanket spread between them.

No names. No awkward questions.

Only shared silence. Stars blinking through scattered clouds.

He glanced at her.

“I used to think no one really saw me. Then your letters started to feel like mirrors.”

Ava swallowed.

“You made me want to write again,” she admitted. “Not for work. Not for money. Just… because it felt like someone was finally listening.”

Their hands met without trying.

Warm. Honest. Real.

And when he leaned in, slowly, she didn’t stop him.

His kiss tasted like rain and ink and something she’d waited too long to find.

Epilogue: No More Notes

In the weeks that followed, the letters stopped.

Because they no longer needed them.

He knocked on her door now instead.

Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with books. Sometimes just because he wanted to see her face.

His name was Leo.

He still paced when it rained.

She still drank too much tea.

But now, the sound of footsteps overhead made her smile.

Because every love story starts somewhere.

And theirs?

Started with a note.