Every morning, I play the piano for my late husband, Jerry. As Debussy’s Clair de Lune drifts through the room, I whisper, “Did you love it today, darling?” For fifty years, music was our shared love—now it’s my way of keeping him close.

But lately, peace has been hard to find. My new neighbor banged on the window one morning, shouting, “Cut out that racket!” The next day, a woman threatened to report me to the HOA if I didn’t stop playing.

I tried to adapt—closing windows, shortening practice. But when I saw SHUT UP spray-painted on my wall, I broke. That night, I didn’t play. I sat in Jerry’s old chair, whispering, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Then my son called. “Mom, are you okay?” His voice gave me hope. The next day, he sent my granddaughter, Melissa.

Weeks later, Melissa and I played duets for the neighborhood. A mural of a piano now covers the vandalized wall, reading: “Music heals. May we always listen.”

As the crowd clapped, I looked at Melissa and smiled. I’d found my way back to the music. Jerry would’ve loved it.