When I relocated to the city’s outskirts, I was seeking tranquility. After thirty-two years of city clamor, congested crowds, and relentless pursuit of more, I was ready for a change. I longed for quietude, a place to breathe, and an environment where I could focus on writing my stories.
I discovered a quaint house at the edge of a small community where time seemed to slow. However, my new life was far from what I had anticipated. My closest neighbor, Mrs. Harrington, was a woman in her 60s residing in a dilapidated house with peeling paint, crooked shutters, and an overgrown lawn. Her home seemed out of place in the otherwise charming neighborhood.
What truly captivated me was a small, rusty shack about twenty feet from Mrs. Harrington’s house. The shack’s shabby appearance and Mrs. Harrington’s peculiar daily routine intrigued me. Each day, she would visit the shack twice, carrying two shopping bags, and stay inside for about twenty minutes. Despite my curiosity and attempts to introduce myself, Mrs. Harrington remained distant and unfriendly, avoiding conversation and eye contact.
