The Quietest Flat On The Block

For years, we rented our flat cheaply due to Mrs. Dragu, our noisy neighbor who banged and cackled at 4 a.m. A young tenant, Marcus, stayed a full year—unlike others who fled within weeks. When Mrs. Dragu died, we found dozens of letters in her flat addressed to “Jonas,” filled with apologies, rants, and poems. Marcus claimed she was kind, bringing him soup and sharing stories of Jonas, a violinist with a birthmark. Among her belongings, we found a violin with a note: “Find your own voice.” Soon, Marcus played it at 4 a.m., revealing a photo of young

Mrs. Dragu with a boy resembling Jonas. He moved out, saying he’d found his purpose. Months later, a newspaper clipping showed Marcus performing violin in a town square, honoring Mrs. Dragu’s memory. She wasn’t crazy—she was heartbroken, waiting to be heard. Marcus listened, transforming her noise into music. Now, we play her favorite violin track yearly, not to recall the chaos, but her story. Sometimes, the loudest people are just begging to be seen. Be the one who listens.