Still, her neighbors watched her oddly. Not unkindly, but with a kind of tense curiosity—as if she were reopening a book they’d long since shut. Once, she waved at an elderly couple across the street. They waved back, then whispered behind closed doors. She chose not to ask.
For a while, she found comfort in routine. Mornings began with coffee and a walk in the garden. Afternoons at the local library’s reading group. Once a week, she volunteered at the elementary school, reading to children in the corner of their sunlit library. It was finally peaceful again.
But about a month ago, something shifted. It began subtly—barely perceptible. She’d come home from volunteering to find her bedroom window cracked open, though she swore she’d closed it. A spoon left in the sink. A chair slightly pulled out. Things she dismissed as forgetfulness.
Then came the fridge. On more than one occasion, she returned to find the milk carton lighter than she remembered. Or the jam jar lid twisted and crooked. She told herself she was imagining things. That grief was still playing tricks. That this was aging. But doubt was setting in.