We stepped into her flat expecting chaos, but instead found something unexpected—walls lined with soundproofing

and stacks of old cassette recorders. Dozens of them, each filled with voices, laughter, and footsteps.

At first, it felt unsettling. Why would she fill the nights with noise if she was already capturing sound herself?

Then we found her journal.

One entry read: “I make noise at night so I won’t feel alone. My husband died years ago, and the silence crushed me.

Recording voices keeps me company. Every sound reminds me I’m still part of the world.” In that moment,

everything shifted. The “crazy lady” we had judged wasn’t mad—she was lonely, clinging to the echoes of a life that once brought her warmth.

A young man who later rented our flat said he always greeted her through the wall. “Good morning, neighbor,”

in the morning, and “Sleep well,” at night. That’s why he stayed—he gave her something we hadn’t: kindness.

Her passing shook us. But it taught us something lasting—that what we call “crazy” is often just misunderstood pain.

And that even the smallest acts of compassion can bring someone back from the edge of isolation.