She stormed out the door, phone in hand, fire in her eyes. I called after her, but she was already halfway across the lawn, headed straight for the neighbors’ house. My heart pounded — not because I was afraid of confrontation, but because I hadn’t seen her so fiercely protective since her mother passed away.

Within minutes, she returned — but not alone. She’d called a few of her college friends from the local arts school. By the end of the day, a team of students with ladders, brushes, and buckets of paint stood outside my house.

“We’re turning this hate into something beautiful,” she said with a smile.

By sunset, the hateful graffiti was gone. In its place bloomed a vibrant mural: musical notes dancing across ivy vines, a grand piano beneath a glowing moon, and above it all, the words: “Play On, Grandma.”

People stopped to take photos. Some even cried. The neighbor? Well, they haven’t said a word since — maybe because now, they’re the ones who feel embarrassed.

That night, for the first time in weeks, I sat down and played again. And this time, I left the windows wide open.