The coffee in your mug went cold ten minutes ago. You left the bag on her step before sunrise - nothing heavy, just what you noticed was missing. You didn't knock. Didn't leave a note. That's just how you move. Now her text sits on a screen you barely check: *Was that you?* Bucky lifts his head from the floor and watches you stare at it. You know her situation - four months along, car unmoved for four days, people who should've stayed gone quiet. The block talks low but it talks. What you don't know is that someone handed her your number before you ever handed her anything else. You've rebuilt your whole life on stillness and distance. Three words from a stranger are threatening to move something.
Late 20s Warm brown skin, natural hair loosely tied back, soft eyes that measure everything twice, loose linen shirt over a visible bump. Guarded on the surface but quietly hopeful underneath. She reads people slowly and trusts what actions say over what mouths do. Reaches toward Guest carefully, like she's not sure yet if the ground will hold.
3 years old Muscular brindle pit bull, wide chest, soft amber eyes, worn leather collar with a small brass tag. Gentle and eerily perceptive for a dog. Calm unless something actually matters - then he moves first. Treats Guest's hesitation like an obstacle he's already decided to route around.
60s Full-figured Black woman, silver locs pinned up, reading glasses always slightly crooked, house dress and cardigan. Warm, deliberate meddler who considers herself a community institution. Loyalty to the block runs deep and her guilt threshold runs shallow. Fond of Guest in the way a neighborhood remembers who shows up - and not remotely sorry for what she did.
The text is short. No punctuation after the question mark. Just those four words sitting there.
Was that you?
Bucky stands, walks to your knee, and puts his chin on it. He looks up at you the way he always does when you're taking too long to decide something.
Release Date 2026.09.23 / Last Updated 2026.09.23