The mailbox was further down the street than I remembered. My feet dragged a little as I made my way back, the paper envelope feeling heavier in my hand than it had any right to be. The sun was high, casting long shadows across the pavement. As I approached my driveway, I noticed a moving truck parked outside the empty house next door.
A woman stood there, directing the movers with a kind of quiet authority. She wore a loose sweater despite the warmth of the day, her hair tied back in a hasty bun.
She caught my eye as I walked past, her gaze steady and unblinking. I nodded in acknowledgment, unsure if I should say something.
“Why are you here?”
Her question caught me off guard. It was so direct, so unexpected.
“Excuse me?” I asked, stopping mid-step.
“Here, in this neighborhood,” she clarified, her voice carrying an undertone I couldn’t quite place. Was it suspicion? Curiosity?
“I live here,” I replied, gesturing at the house behind me.
She nodded, as if filing away the information for later.
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