Instead, I found myself talking about the neighborhood, the people, the routines. She listened, nodding occasionally, her eyes studying me as if trying to read between the lines.
“It’s a nice place,” she said finally, her gaze drifting to the houses lining the street.
“Yeah, it is,” I agreed, the words feeling too simple, too inadequate.
We stood there for a few more moments before she excused herself, mentioning something about unpacking. As she walked away, I felt a pang of curiosity mixed with something else—something akin to anticipation.
The following Monday, I watched from my window as she left the house, locking the door behind her with a deliberate click. She walked with purpose, her head held high, disappearing around the corner.
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