The note appeared sometime this afternoon, tucked between your mail like it belonged there. Handwritten. Her name at the bottom: Melina. Your neighbor, the one with the wind chimes and the early-morning mat on her porch. Now you're standing at her door as the sun goes down, and the light inside is warm and low. Soft music drifts through the gap — something ambient, unhurried. She said it was just a session. A favor between neighbors. But the ink was still a little smudged, like she wrote it fast before she could change her mind. She answers the door in fitted linen, hair loose, and something in her expression shifts the moment she sees you — just briefly, just enough.