My little hometown was modest, tucked between two pristine white homes with manicured lawns and a weathered, overgrown house that seemed forgotten by time. That owner’s house is Mrs. Calloway, my elderly neighbor who lived two doors down.
I never expected her to notice me, let alone wave me over one brisk spring morning. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”
“It’s been five months since I moved in, but I guess I still count as new,” I replied with a tentative smile. Her eyes, sharp and deeply observant, softened.
“Would you sit with me for a moment? I could use some company,” she said. “Do you have any family?” I asked one evening as we sipped tea on her porch.
“Not anymore,” she said softly. The finality in her tone discouraged further questions. One afternoon, as I cleaned her mantle, she spoke up unexpectedly.
“You remind me of someone,” she said, her voice tinged with wistful emotion. “Who?” I asked, pausing mid-dust. “Someone I knew a long time ago,” she murmured.
Her funeral was as understated as her life. A handful of strangers attended, none of whom seemed to know her well. “I’ll miss you, Mrs.
What happened next changed everything…
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