The fourth floor was empty—not abandoned, but waiting. For years, it held only dust and the echo of footsteps. Then one autumn, a retired violinist moved in. Now, at dusk, the four storey building breathes: bread rising, papers shuffling, heartbeats steady, and a bow drawn across strings—each floor a note in a quiet chord.
The second floor was a law office, quiet and stern. Mr. Hargrove rarely smiled, but he kept the rent paid for the three floors above him. four storey building
The ground floor was a bakery, warm with the scent of sourdough and cinnamon. Mrs. Gable started her days at 4 a.m., kneading dough while the city slept. The fourth floor was empty—not abandoned, but waiting