We moved into a new apartment, thrilled for a fresh start. Then, our neighbors began renovations. From dawn to dusk, relentless drilling and hammering shattered our peace. For six grueling months, we endured it, hoping for silence. My husband, Tom, finally snapped.
Fuming, he marched to their door, ready to demand an end. A wiry man answered, tools clinking in the background. “Will this renovation ever stop?” Tom asked, exasperated.
The man blinked, then grinned. “No renovations here. We run repair courses—8 a.m. to 8 p.m., four groups daily. Want to sign up? What time suits you?”
Tom stood dumbfounded. Courses? Not repairs? The absurdity hit him. These weren’t builders but eager students practicing drywall and plumbing. He stammered, “No, thanks,” and retreated.
Back home, we laughed, half-mad, half-amused. The noise wasn’t malice—just ambition. We bought earplugs, befriended the chaos, and even peeked into a class. Clumsy hammer swings and earnest faces softened our frustration. By month seven, silence arrived; the courses ended. Our neighbors, now skilled fixers, invited us for coffee in their newly polished home. We accepted, marveling at the quiet—and their craft.
