The Piano Upstairs (B1 Reading Story)

B1 · INTERMEDIATE Reading practice · ~2,900 words · 15-min read

This is an original story for intermediate learners. It is about a quiet young woman, an old man upstairs, and a piano that has played the same song for five years. Before you start, read the ten key words below — they all appear in the story more than once. At the end, there is a quiz, a grammar focus, and ideas for speaking and writing.

The story

1 · The music at seven

Nadia has lived in the block of flats for two months now. The block is old and tall, with six floors and a slow lift that groans every time she uses it. Her flat is on the third floor. It is small — one room, one kitchen, one narrow window — but it has good light in the afternoon and a low rent. For Nadia, that is enough.

She is twenty-six years old. She works in a public library in the middle of the city. She likes her job, because a library is a quiet place, and Nadia is a quiet person. All day, she puts books back on shelves and helps old people find the newspaper. In the evening, she walks home along the river. She cooks something simple. She reads a little. Then she sleeps.

She does not know her neighbours yet. In big city blocks, people do not always speak. They pass each other on the stairs, and they say only “hello”, or nothing at all. Nadia has always been shy, so this suits her — most of the time.

But there is one thing about her new flat that she has come to love. Every evening at seven o’clock, someone in the flat directly above her plays the piano.

It is always the same piece — a slow, soft melody, played with great care. Nadia does not know the name of the melody. But she knows it now, note by note. She can even hum it in the shower.

The piano is not loud. The sound comes through the ceiling like something warm and small. Some nights it lasts ten minutes. Some nights, twenty. Then it stops, and the whole block is quiet again.

Nadia has never met the person who plays. She only knows that his flat is number 44. She has passed the door many times, but she has never seen anyone go in or out. There is no name plate. Only a small brass number, and a tired plant in a clay pot by the wall.

At the library, Nadia has told her colleague about the music. Her colleague is a kind, sharp woman called Bea, who has worked at the library for thirty years and who knows everyone in the city.

“That sounds lovely,” Bea said, over their tea. “In my block, the tenant upstairs watches loud football on the television every evening. I would trade with you in a second.” A tenant is a person who pays rent to live in a flat or house.

Nadia laughed. But she has thought about the piano every day since she moved in. The melody has become part of her evening. She hurries home to hear it. If she is a little late, she runs up the stairs to catch the last few notes. On the bad days, when work has been slow and lonely, the piano feels like a small gift — a message from a stranger who does not know he is giving anything at all.

2 · A silent week

Then, one Monday, at seven o’clock, the ceiling is silent.

Nadia sits at her table with her book and her cup of tea. She waits. She looks up at the ceiling. Nothing. She checks the time on her phone — 7:03, 7:07, 7:15. The piano does not play.

“Perhaps he has gone out,” she thinks. “Perhaps he has a cold.”

But on Tuesday, there is no music either. And on Wednesday, and Thursday. The block feels bigger without the melody. Bigger, and colder.

By Friday, Nadia has started to worry. It sounds silly — she has never met the man. But he has played every single evening for two months, at the same time. Something is different.

On Friday night, she stands in her kitchen and listens hard. There is no music, but there are other sounds. A soft cough. Slow footsteps, one after the other, across the ceiling. So he is at home. He is just not playing.

Nadia thinks for a long time. She is shy, and she does not like to knock on strange doors. But then she remembers the melody, and all the tired evenings the melody has quietly fixed for her. She makes up her mind.

On Saturday morning, she puts on a clean jumper. She takes a small paper bag — inside it, two apples and a bar of dark chocolate, because she does not want to arrive with empty hands. She climbs the stairs to the fourth floor. She stands in front of flat 44 and takes one long breath.

Then she knocks.

For a moment, nothing. Then, slow footsteps again. The door opens a small way, and a face looks out.

The man is very old — perhaps eighty. His hair is white and thin. He wears an old brown cardigan with a small hole at the elbow. His eyes are pale grey, and they look tired.

“Yes?” he says. His voice is soft, with a small warm accent.

“I am so sorry to bother you,” Nadia says. Her heart is beating hard. “My name is Nadia. I live downstairs, in flat 34. I — this will sound strange, I know — but I have heard your piano every night for two months. And this week, you have not played. I only wanted to check that you are all right.”

The old man looks at her for a long, quiet moment. Then, slowly, he smiles.

“You have heard my piano?” he says.

“Yes. Every evening at seven.”

“And you have missed it this week?”

“Yes,” Nadia says quietly. “I have missed it very much.”

The smile grows a little. “Then you had better come inside,” he says. “I have not had a guest for a long, long time.”

3 · Mr Costa

The old man’s name is Mr Costa. He is eighty-two years old. He has lived in the flat for forty-one years.

Nadia sits on his old brown sofa. The room is small and neat, with soft yellow curtains and long wooden shelves full of books and records. And in the corner, there is a beautiful upright piano — well cared for, with a shiny black lid. The lid is the top part of the piano that opens and closes to cover the keys.

Mr Costa makes tea. He moves slowly, and Nadia sees that his right hand is wrapped in a white bandage. A bandage is a long piece of soft cloth that you wrap around a hurt part of the body. She does not want to stare, but he sees her looking, and he holds the hand up.

“My wrist,” he says. He points to the small joint between his hand and his arm. “Ten days ago, I fell in the kitchen. I put my hand out, and — snap. It is not broken, the doctor tells me. Only badly hurt. But I cannot play the piano. Not for six more weeks, at the very least.”

“I am so sorry,” Nadia says.

Mr Costa shrugs. “It is age,” he says. “Everything gets slower. But losing the piano — that is a hard one.” He looks at a small photograph on the shelf. A woman with dark curls and a wide, laughing smile is holding a little grey dog.

“That is Elena,” he says. “My wife. She died five years ago. She was seventy-eight.” He is quiet for a moment. “That means I have been a widower for five years now. Five years is a long time, and also no time at all.” A widower is a man whose wife has died.

Nadia does not know what to say. She just listens.

“The song you have heard every evening — it was her favourite,” Mr Costa goes on. “A small piece by a French composer. Not famous. But she loved it. On our second date, more than fifty years ago now, we sat on a small stone bench, and she hummed it to me. Later, I learned to play it for her. When she died, I could not eat. I could not sleep. But I could play her song. So I played it every evening, at seven o’clock, because that was the time we used to have dinner. I have played it every day since. Until this week.”

He looks down at his wrist, and his face tightens in a small pained way.

“You must miss it,” Nadia says softly.

“I miss her,” Mr Costa says. “The song is only a way to bring her close for a few minutes. Without it — the evening feels very empty.”

Nadia thinks of her own quiet evenings. She thinks of all the times she has run up the stairs to hear the last few notes of that same melody. And an idea comes to her — a strange idea, but a strong one.

“Mr Costa,” she says slowly. “This will sound silly. But I have listened to that song every night for two months. I think I know how it goes. I have never played the piano before — not one note in my life. But if you show me how to start, I could try to learn it. For you. Just until your wrist is better.”

Mr Costa looks at her for a long moment. His pale eyes shine.

“Child,” he says, “that is not silly at all.”

4 · The library piano

There is an old piano at the back of the library, in the music room. Nobody plays it. Most days, it stands under a grey sheet, next to some broken chairs and a box of dusty maps. Bea has told Nadia that a rich lady gave the piano to the library twenty years ago, and that after her, no piano teacher ever came. Now it is just a big brown box that nobody touches.

On Monday morning, Nadia asks the library manager if she can use it after work. He looks at her over his glasses and laughs a little.

“Nobody has asked me that in ten years,” he says. “Of course. As long as you lock the room when you leave.”

That evening, Nadia stays late. She takes the sheet off the piano. She sits on the wooden stool. She puts her fingers on the keys and does not know where to start.

But she is not alone. On Sunday, before she left his flat, Mr Costa gave her a page. On it, he had drawn a small map of the keys and where her fingers should go. He had written the tune out in easy numbers, not in real music. He had said, in his soft, careful voice, “Do the first eight notes only. Just eight. When those eight are good, come back, and I will give you eight more.”

Nadia plays. It sounds bad. Terrible. Her fingers are clumsy, and the notes come out slow and often wrong. But she does not stop. Eight notes. Then eight notes again. Then eight notes again.

An hour later, she thinks, “That is not so bad.”

She goes home. She climbs the stairs. She stops at Mr Costa’s door and knocks softly.

“Well?” he asks.

“I think I can play the first eight,” she says. “Maybe.”

He laughs — really laughs — for the first time since she met him. “Then come in. Play them for me.”

She does not want to. She is embarrassed. But he is stubborn — that is, he is not willing to change his mind or give up. He points to the piano and says only, “Now, please. My tea is getting cold.”

So Nadia sits at his beautiful old upright, and she plays her eight little notes. They wobble. They are slow. But they are right.

Mr Costa closes his eyes. When he opens them, they are wet.

“That is exactly the beginning,” he says. “That is exactly how it starts.”

5 · Six weeks

Six weeks pass. In that time, many small things happen.

Every evening after work, Nadia stays at the library and practises. Bea has started to bring her a cup of tea at half past six, so that she has something warm before she plays. Bea does not ask why. She only smiles and says, “Play well, dear.”

Every Sunday afternoon, Nadia climbs the stairs to flat 44. She plays what she has learned. Mr Costa listens with his eyes closed. He gives her the next eight notes, and sometimes he corrects her fingers with a light touch of his good hand. Then they drink tea. He tells her stories about Elena. He tells her about his small village in Portugal, where he grew up. He tells her about his first piano lesson, when he was six years old, and about the strict teacher who used to rap his knuckles with a ruler when he made a mistake.

Nadia has never talked so much to anyone. She has never listened so much either.

Slowly, Mr Costa’s wrist gets better. Each week, the bandage looks a little smaller. Each week, he can move his fingers a little more. On the fifth week, he takes off the bandage for good. His hand is thin and pale, but it is his again.

“I will try tomorrow,” he tells her, on that Sunday. “Only one note. Then two. Then more, if my hand allows.”

“If your hand hurts, you must stop,” Nadia says.

“If it hurts, I will stop,” he promises, though he smiles as if to say, “You know how stubborn I am.”

The next evening at seven, Nadia sits in her flat and waits. Her tea is on the table. Her book is on her lap, unread. Her heart is loud in her ears.

And then — she hears it. One note. A pause. Two notes. Another pause. And slowly, note by careful note, the melody comes back through the ceiling. Softly. A little uneven. But real.

Nadia puts her hand on her chest. She feels the warm wave of relief go through her — the warm, calm feeling when a long worry finally ends. He can play again. He is himself again.

She does not cry. She just closes her eyes and listens to the whole piece, from the first note to the last.

6 · A small concert

One month later, on a warm evening in May, Mr Costa knocks on Nadia’s door. He is holding a small white envelope.

“An invitation,” he says, and puts it in her hand.

Inside, in his careful old handwriting, it says: “To Nadia, my kind neighbour. Please come to flat 44 tonight at seven o’clock, for a small concert. Only you. Best clothes not required.”

Nadia laughs. “I will be there,” she says.

At seven o’clock, she puts on the same clean jumper she wore the day she first knocked on his door. She climbs the stairs. She knocks.

Mr Costa opens the door with a small, funny bow. Inside, he has moved a wooden chair next to the piano. On the chair is a plate of biscuits, a cup of tea, and a single white flower in a thin glass.

“Sit, please,” he says. “You are the audience. It is a full house tonight.”

Nadia sits. Mr Costa sits at the piano. He lifts the lid. He takes one long, slow breath.

Then he plays Elena’s song, from the first note to the last. His fingers still shake a little, and once he pauses to rest for a beat. But the melody is clean and beautiful. Nadia has heard it a hundred times through the ceiling. Now, sitting in the same room, she hears it as if for the very first time.

When the last note fades, he does not turn around. He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, without looking at her, “Now you play it.”

“Me?” Nadia says. “Mr Costa — I only know the pieces you have taught me.”

“You know all of it now,” he says. “I have watched you every Sunday for six weeks. You know it, child. Come.”

She stands up. Her hands are shaking. She sits at the piano in his place. She looks at the keys. She takes a breath.

Then, slowly, her fingers begin. Not perfectly — she misses two notes near the end, and one of them is quite wrong. But she plays the whole song, from beginning to end, and the melody comes out of the old wooden piano like a shy voice that has finally decided to speak.

When she stops, Mr Costa puts his good hand on her shoulder. “Now the song has two players,” he says. “That is a very good thing.”

He gives her a small package wrapped in brown paper. Inside is an old photograph — Elena, young and laughing, sitting at the same piano.

“For you,” he says. “A small keepsake. A keepsake is something you keep to remember a special moment. If you keep the song, please keep her face too.”

Nadia holds the photograph in both hands. She has never received such a gift.

“Thank you, Mr Costa,” she says.

“Thank you, Nadia,” he says. “The song is not just mine any more. And that is exactly what I have wanted for five long years, and did not know how to ask for.”

They sit together for a long time in the quiet flat, and outside, the whole block is silent — except for the two of them, and one small white flower on an old wooden chair.

But then Mr Costa turns to her with a strange, small smile. “There is one more thing about that song,” he says. “One more thing I have never told anybody. Not even Elena knew…”

Check your understanding

Read each question and think about your answer. Then click “Show answer” to check.

Words to remember

Here are the ten key words again, in new sentences. Say each one out loud, then try to make one sentence of your own.

• block (of flats) — There is a new block of flats next to the station, with sixty small homes inside.
• tenant — The tenant upstairs is very quiet — I have not heard him once this week.
• melody — I cannot remember the words of the song, but the melody is stuck in my head.
• lid — He lifted the lid of the piano and cleaned the dust from the keys.
• wrist — She wears a small silver watch on her left wrist.
• widower — My uncle became a widower last year, and he lives alone in the family house now.
• bandage — The nurse wrapped a soft white bandage around the child’s knee.
• stubborn — My grandfather is very stubborn — he refuses to use the lift, even on the sixth floor.
• relief — When the test results were good, I felt a huge wave of relief.
• keepsake — I still have the small shell she gave me at the beach — it is my favourite keepsake.

Talk about it · Write about it

Talk about it: Do you know any of your neighbours by name? Is there a small daily sound or habit that you would miss if it disappeared — a bell, a car, a voice, a song?

Write about it: Write a short paragraph (80–120 words) about one small, kind thing you have done for a stranger — or that a stranger has done for you. Try to use the present perfect at least three times (for example: “She has helped me…”, “I have never forgotten…”).

🎉 Well done — you have finished a whole story in English, and you have learned ten new words along the way. That is real reading practice, not just a list to memorise.

But wait — what is the last thing about the song that Mr Costa has never told anyone? Not even his wife? You will find out in the next story…

Next story: Read another B1 story →

About this story: This is an original B1 graded reader (~2,900 words). It uses controlled intermediate vocabulary and focuses on the present perfect tense, relative clauses, and simple conditionals — so intermediate learners can understand about 98% of the words. Any harder word is glossed before the story and used again inside it, following the Oxford Bookworms method.

Khamis Maiouf

I’m Khamis Maiouf. English is not my first language – I learned it as an adult in the UK, passed Functional Skills Level 2 in English, qualified in Hairdressing at Level 3, and I’m now studying Business at university. For over five years I’ve taught ESOL classes in my community and tutored students through GCSE English. I write every lesson on this site myself, for the learner I used to be.