The strident rap on the door startled Arthur from his reverie. He’d been gazing out the window, watching the leaves of the ancient oak across the street dance in the autumn wind. His fingers traced the worn wood of the windowsill. It hadn’t changed in the fifty years he’d lived in this house.
He opened the door to find Mrs. Gable, her face pinched, her lips moving in a familiar grimace. "Arthur, dear," she began, her voice brittle. "That music… it's far too loud. I can't hear the television."
A warmth bloomed in Arthur's chest, a feeling not quite joy, but something close. He hadn't played his vinyl records in ages. He stepped aside, gesturing her into the small, cluttered living room. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sun, illuminating the layers of books and knick-knacks that filled every surface.
“Let me turn it down, Eleanor,” he said, his voice softer than he’d intended. He touched the turntable gently, the needle resting in its cradle. The music faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He wanted to tell her about the music, how it was his late wife’s favorite, how it made him remember her smile, the way she used to hum along. But he bit back the words, knowing they wouldn’t understand.