Moving into this house was supposed to be a new beginning. A blank slate. I’d spent years feeling adrift, and this quiet suburban street, this small, sun-drenched cottage, felt like a promise. A chance to finally breathe.
My next-door neighbor, an older woman with a perpetually kind but slightly unsettling gaze, was the first one to welcome me. Or, at least, the first one to observe me. She’d always be out, tending her immaculate rose bushes, or just sitting on her porch, watching the street. Watching my house. I told myself it was just small-town curiosity.Then the lawn incident happened.I work long hours. The grass was getting a little shaggy, I’ll admit. I’d planned to rent a mower that weekend. But when I pulled into my driveway on a Tuesday evening, it was done. Perfectly trimmed, edged, neat. I paused, a strange feeling creeping up my spine. Had someone from the HOA done it? Unlikely. I hadn’t even finished unpacking.
The next morning, tucked under a rock on my porch, was an envelope. Handwritten. My stomach clenched as I opened it. Inside was a crisp, folded piece of paper. Not a formal invoice, just a simple note: “For lawn care. $50.” No name, no signature. Just a small drawing of a rose at the bottom.
My blood ran cold. Fifty dollars for an unsolicited lawn mowing? Who does that? My first thought was pure, unadulterated anger. Was this some kind of scam? Some bizarre neighborhood initiation? I felt utterly violated. My sanctuary, my blank slate, already tainted. I was furious. I was ready to storm over there, wave the note in her face, demand an explanation.
But something held me back. Maybe it was the quiet, almost timid handwriting. Or the little rose. It felt… deliberate, but not aggressive. I spent that evening pacing, my mind racing. Fifty dollars. Not enough to be a serious threat, but enough to feel like a profound insult.
I didn’t pay. I couldn’t. It felt like condoning her audacity. Instead, I started watching her. I’d peer through my curtains, trying to catch her in a moment of explanation. She still sat on her porch. Still tended her roses. But now, when she looked my way, I saw something different. A flicker of something in her eyes. Not malice, not even expectation. Something… desperate.
One afternoon, I saw her struggling with a heavy bag of soil. My anger, still simmering, warred with a strange sense of unease. She wasn’t a young woman. I saw a small scar above her left eyebrow, just like the one I had from falling off my bike as a kid. A weird coincidence, I thought, dismissing it