The old man next door always played his violin. He played every day for as long as I could remember. Right after breakfast and right before bed. His violin sang a warm song that traveled through the paper-thin walls of my apartment. He adored it so much. In his frail and gray, lonely life, his violin was more than an instrument, it was his best friend; his most loyal companion. His fingers were old and tired and calloused from pressing on cold metal strings for all his life. But he adored it so much. Even though it hurt he loved playing, and I loved listening to every note he played. I woke up, ate, and slept to the symphony of his strings. But the man was old. He no longer played with the same warm and vibrant energy. His violin no longer sang so sweetly. His fingers had grown weak and red. They could no longer bear to press down on the now knife-like strings that left indents in his fingers. He would try sometimes, to play how he used to, but the violin, the one he adored so much, had fought back at him.  It too had grown old and tired, its strings out of tune. I woke up one day and he wasn’t playing. He didn’t know me, but I felt like I knew everything about him. I hesitated to knock on his door. I was afraid. I held my ear to his door hoping to hear him play. There was no answer. I walked back to my apartment through the hallways. They were once vibrant with slews of colors, but now all I could see was gray.