Days turned into weeks, and our interactions remained brief, courteous. A nod here, a wave there. I learned her name—Emma—during one of our brief exchanges. But the question she had first asked lingered, unanswered, weaving itself into the fabric of our interactions.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I saw her sitting on her porch, a book in her lap. The air was cooler, a hint of autumn creeping in. I hesitated, then walked over, feeling an inexplicable pull.
She looked up, surprised but not unfriendly.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked, gesturing to the empty chair beside her.
“Not at all,” she replied, closing her book with a soft thud.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the crickets filling the gaps. I finally worked up the courage to ask what had been on my mind since that first day.
“Why did you ask why I was here?”
She paused, considering my question, then smiled, an expression tinged with something I couldn’t quite place.
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