Because our former neighbor is crazy, we rent our flat cheaply. She annoys neighbors at 4 a.m. with loud noises. A young man rented. He smiled when we told him. After a year, we were surprised he was still there—nobody lasted more than 8 weeks. The woman died. We visited her flat and were shocked to discover…
Letters written by hand. Dozens. Hidden under drawers, behind furniture, coat pockets, and under floorboards. All for “Jonas.”
We stared at the mess, jaws gaping. Her flat was weird, not dirty. Scribbles, tallies, and red-circled calendars lined the walls. The kettle was heated when they discovered her. She appeared to have left and forgotten to return.
Marcus, the young man, was asked if he observed anything peculiar. He shook his head, “She was kind to me.”
Kind? To him?
We knew her for almost a decade. She was Mrs. Dragu. Every morning at 4:00 a.m., she would drag her cane along corridor walls, bang cupboard doors, and stomp like a parader. She would suddenly laugh like she was at a comedy show only she understood.
We questioned Marcus’ meaning. “She brought me soup when I was sick. Listening to me. I got a chessboard.”
I murmured, “Is he messing with us?” to my partner.
Marcus was not sarcastic. He meant every word.
After the cops checked and released the flat, we could enter. Not for fun—she had no family. No kids. Siblingless. As building owners, we handled her stuff for the city.
We found the letters that way.
There were nearly 100 since the early 80s. Always addressed to Jonas in poor cursive. Some apologized profusely. Other rants were angry. And some were just poems. Sweet, almost childlike, with margin illustrations of birds, teacups, and clouds.
We read aloud on her old carpet.
“Jonas,
I heard violin again today. You promised to return when I did. I did. I painted the hallway yellow per your request. Yes, I baked the nut cake. You skipped it. I’m exhausted. Maybe next spring?
We discovered Jonas was someone she lost long ago. Perhaps her husband, lover, or son. We doubted. There were no images or records. Just letters.
Marcus requested a reading. We hesitated but gave him a stack.
He read quietly cross-legged like a child at storytime. His next statement made me cringe.
“She mentioned Jonas. She said he played violin and had a left cheek birthmark.”
He was truthful. We found a letter saying such.
“Jonas, you hated the hat. Said it itched your head. I said to wear it anyway. Remember? “That summer, the sun turned your birthmark strawberry-red…”
Wait—how do you know? I requested.
Marcus said, “She told me,” as if it were clear.
“She barely spoke to us in ten years,” I added.
Shrugging. “She addressed me.”
I didn’t get it. Was she a lonely old woman who met someone who listened? Did age soften her?
A week passed. We properly cleaned her flat, separating items for donation, storage, or rubbish. Marcus helped. Even volunteered.
He brought a dusty “records” box down one morning. Lots of classical vinyls were inside. Some were intact, but others were fractured or deformed. Marcus kept one.
“Why that one?” I requested.
He turned it over to show me the back. Jonas performs Track 3 was written fadedly.
We heard it that night. Soft, haunting violin solo in Track 3. Beautiful. Melancholic. This gave me chills.
The twist begins here.
Marcus came to us one evening, eyes wide, holding a clothed object. Opening it slowly revealed a violin.
“I found it behind her wardrobe,” he claimed.
Time had bent the wood and it was ancient and stringless. The case included a folded paper with four words: “Find your own voice.”
He took it up.
The next morning at 4 a.m., we heard violins.
Unchaotic noise. Not scraping. Actual music. Soft, like raindrops on glass.
We rushed to his door and knocked.
It was opened with a smile. Would try.”
“You play?” my partner inquired.
Im learning. I should, she said.”
“She told you?”
Nodded and pointed to a tiny photo on his shelf.
A young, happy Mrs. Dragu stood next to a teenage lad with a violin. He had a strawberry-shaped cheek mark.
She handed it to me before dying. Said I should see love before it disappears.”
That shocked us. She was aware of death?
Marcus announced his departure the following week.
“Wait—now?” I said. “You survived a year. What changed?
He grinned. “I found my purpose.”
Very perplexed. He went the next day with the violin and backpack.
A few months passed. The flat was rented twice more. They rented for less than two months. They found it “too quiet.” Too heavy.
A letter arrived one morning. Absent return address. A newspaper clipping from a little town far away was inside. The headline:
“Young Man Revives Town Square With Violin Performances Honoring Local Legend.”
Marcus was shown playing in front of a fountain with flowers.
He wrote about how an old woman gave him a violin and advised him to find his voice. He said he played every morning at 4 a.m. to greet the day like she did—with volume, presence, and feeling.
“She wasn’t crazy,” he stated in an interview. “She waited to be heard.”
That altered our view of her.
We returned to her apartment. No cleaning or donating this time. Just sit.
Another note we overlooked was found. Taped inside a drawer.
“Dear kind stranger,
If you read this, you outlived me. Good.
I hope you heard. With your heart and ears.
Jonas always thought quiet is crueler than screams.
Create music. Despite pain.
I love you, L.”
The note was saved. Framed.
Next morning, we didn’t sleep.
We walked the corridor where she stomped and sang at 4 a.m.
There was no noise. We heard echos. Someone who kept talking in hopes of being heard.
This is it.
Sometimes people are intolerable. Loud. Messy. Inconvenient.
But what if they want attention?
What if every bothersome behavior links them to a lost loved one?
Or an appeal to the universe for an answer?
Mrs. Dragu wasn’t mad. She was devastated.
And Marcus? He was more than a tenant. He bridged.
Her only observer who said, “I see you.”
That’s the twist. That the person everyone warned you about may teach you the most.
We play her record every year on her death anniversary. Track 3. Volume up.
Remember the tale, not the noise.
Perhaps that’s the point.
Don’t immediately silence disruptive people. They sometimes sing the one song they know, which saved them when all else failed.
Be the listener when possible.
If this story moved you, tell someone who needs to hear it.
Like it. Pass it on. Make someone feel not alone.
