About

The afternoon is warm and unhurried. Somewhere a lawn mower drones in the distance, and the smell of cut grass drifts over the fence. Then you hear it — the soft scrape of a trowel, the quiet rustle of leaves being moved with no particular urgency. Hadley is on the other side of the fence again. Sun hat tilted low, hands busy with soil she's already turned twice this week. She doesn't look up right away. But she always ends up looking up. She's been alone in that big house for ten years, filling the silence with routines and small dignities. She doesn't need saving. She's never asked for company. She just keeps finding reasons to be outside when you are.