The old man sits in the same spot on his couch like always. His glasses fall to the tip of his nose as his frail fingers grasp at the edges of his book, opening the pages with a heavy sigh. The old man is very good at multitasking. As he traces his finger precisely under each line, he listens to the racket his upstairs neighbors are making. They must be fighting again, for the heavy tread of the husband's footsteps runs to the entrance of the apartment and is met with a slam of the door. “Tsk tsk,” rumbles the old man. He’s heard all their arguments, and wonders when the man will learn his lesson and start prioritizing his wife over work. The old man knows everyone’s stories. The wall across from the couch contains a rowdy elderly couple whose hearing has clearly deteriorated since they spend their evenings listening to podcasts with maximum volume. The old man now knows everything about getting rid of smile lines and dark under eye circles thanks to his neighbors. The apartment that shares the wall where the couch sits is unusually quiet. Normally the young couple plays soft jazz music that seeps through the walls, or has guests over who all converse about their aspiring dreams and their abundant love lives. The old man hasn't smelt the fresh city air in months after taking a tumble down the building's narrow staircase. He misses seeing the couple in the mailroom or in the hallway, wearing paint stained overalls and smelling of vanilla with the faint scent of citrus, probably from their constant appetite for smoothies that they make each morning with their deafening blender. They were so lovely though, always rosy cheeked with their arms interlocked and their gummy smiles, so clearly whisked away with admiration and devotion for one another. The old man is reminded of the warmth he's never experienced every time he catches a glance at the way the tension burrowed in the boyfriend’s eyebrows drops and the manner in which his eyes brighten whenever he looks down at her. The old man has never looked at anyone that way. His work had consumed every waking hour, so the possibility of needing to set aside even a minute of his time for a lady was unthinkable. Only now does he realize his foolishness when he hears their giggles and the soft “I love you”s late at night while he sits on his couch with his books all alone. A man who has lived so long may look down at their love and tsk at their naivety, but can one really call themselves wise when they have spent nearly a century alive and have never found anything quite as remarkable as their tenderness for each other? So there he sits, wondering what adventure the couple has embarked on together that night as he quietly flips through the pages of his book. 

His neck fails to support his head as he begins to nod off, still sitting upright on the couch with a book in his lap. A swift slam of the door startles the old man and he looks around curiously. The couple is back home, but something is different. There is no rambunctious laughter, and the stereo remains untouched, unusual for a couple who seems to always be dancing and singing. Even their footsteps seem cautionary, careful to not to disturb a squeaky floorboard. The old man stiffly rotates his neck so that his ear presses up against the popcorn textured wall, listening for any clues that could reveal this unique behavior. The couple's soft voices whisper to each other as they strip off their outside essentials of bags and shoes and coats. Without warning, an abrupt cry sweeps through the house, followed by sweet hushings and consolements. A baby? The raw sound of a fresh human who has yet to make use of their voice rings through the building. The old man’s eyes widen as he presses his ear further onto the wall, greedily searching for any more information about this unexpected situation. The couples’ comforting has seemed to ease the baby's troubles, and even through the muffled sounds, the man can hear the love they exert towards their mini creation. He can hear the smile in their voice.