Chapter 1: The 5 A.M. Siren War

The old guy gets up for his morning stretches and vocal warm-ups every day before 5 a.m. The racket he makes is so loud, nobody in Maple Heights gets any sleep. It’s like clockwork—every single morning. And the noise? It’s relentless.

His routine wasn’t just a couple jumping jacks or a quiet hum—no, he belted out old show tunes and shouted vocal exercises like he was auditioning for Broadway. The sound bounced off every brick and window, echoing through the sleepy streets. Honestly, you’d think the whole block was getting a wake-up call from a tornado siren crossed with a jazz band.

If anyone dares yell at him, he clutches his chest and collapses, demanding someone pay up. Even the cops? They can’t do a thing about him.

Neighbors have tried everything: banging on their windows, calling the police, even writing angry letters to the building manager. But the old man’s got a flair for drama—he’ll drop to the sidewalk, gasping and wheezing, and start waving his medical bills around. More than once, folks have seen him wink when he thinks no one’s looking. The police, tired of his antics, just shrug and say their hands are tied. It’s like living next to a one-man circus. And he’s always center stage.

That is—until the rent in the neighborhood dropped by half. That’s when I moved in, grinning ear to ear.

The rent signs had been up so long, the sun had faded the letters. But I didn’t care. Cheap rent was cheap rent. I rolled up with my mattress strapped to the roof of my Honda, feeling like I’d finally beaten the system. I even did a little happy dance in the parking lot—not knowing what I was getting myself into.

On my first day, after ten years of brutal insomnia, I finally managed to drift off at 5 a.m. Only to be jolted awake by the old guy’s routine.

I’d spent the night counting sheep, reading old detective novels, and staring at the ceiling. When I finally started to nod off... the old man’s voice came crashing through my window like a freight train. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest. Welcome to Maple Heights... I guess.

The neighbors told me to just put up with it and not stir the pot. With bags under my eyes, I just smirked.

"What’s so special about 5 a.m. exercise? Is he scared someone’ll knock on his door at 1 a.m.?"

"I can play this game for a whole year!"

Their faces said it all—resignation, a little fear, maybe a dash of hope that I’d finally be the one to stand up to him. I could practically feel the weight of their collective sleep deprivation pressing down on me. But hey, I’d spent years fighting insomnia. What was one noisy old man? Besides, what else did I have to lose?

After working at a big firm for over ten years, I’d developed serious insomnia.

Late nights, endless emails, coffee that tasted like burnt rubber—my body forgot what sleep even felt like. I was the guy who’d walk into the office at 7 a.m. looking like I’d wrestled a raccoon. My doctor suggested yoga. My boss suggested therapy. I suggested both of them mind their own business.

Luckily, I’d built up a decent savings cushion. So I quit and came back to my hometown, snagging a rental in a place where rent had plummeted.

I figured a slower pace, familiar streets, and my mom’s home cooking might do the trick. The rental was nothing fancy—a faded blue carpet, a leaky faucet, and a heater that rattled like it was haunted. But it was mine. And for the first time in years, I felt like I could finally breathe.

But my insomnia didn’t let up.

I tossed and turned until five in the morning before finally starting to doze.

Just as I was drifting off, laughter and shouting from downstairs yanked me right back up.

It was like some cosmic joke—just as my brain started to drift, the world yanked me back. The laughter wasn’t even cheerful; it was the kind that made your skin crawl, like a sitcom laugh track gone wrong. I wanted to scream. I really did.

I felt a surge of nameless rage.

Waking me up is like kicking my dog! Seriously, who does that?

Who can understand how hard it is for an insomniac to fall asleep naturally? Honestly, it’s a miracle every time.

I opened the window and saw, in the little park below, an old man jogging and shouting. His voice echoed through the whole complex.

I checked my phone—it was only five in the morning!

Fuming, I threw open the window and hollered:

"Seriously, are you trying to wake the dead? If you’d just shut up, maybe you’d last another year!"

The old man stopped, looked up, and pointed, as if counting the floors.

After counting, he jogged straight into my building.

Pretty soon, there was loud pounding at my door. Great. Here we go.

"Sixth floor! I saw it was you, open up!"

It was the first time I’d ever seen someone making all that noise come to my door. I opened up, still in pajamas.

My hair was sticking up in every direction, and I had sleep lines creased across my face. I half-expected him to start yelling before the door was even fully open.

A wave of onion breath hit me as the old man barked,

"Was it you who just cursed me out?"

Rubbing my eyes, I replied, "Who are you?"

"I’m the one doing morning exercises downstairs! Don’t deny it. I counted the floors—it was you!"

The old man’s voice was strong—healthy as a horse, no question.

I pinched my nose to block the stink.

"I did yell, but how do you know I was yelling at you?"

The old guy was clearly thrown off. He took a couple breaths, then said, "Who else would you be yelling at if not me?"

I laughed, "I’ve seen people pick up lost wallets, but this is the first time I’ve seen someone pick up insults."

I paused. "You got a habit of picking up trash, old man?"

His face darkened, breath coming hard, and he pointed at my nose: