And as she skips off toward the kitchen, I glance back through the blinds.
Just once more.
I keep telling myself I’m just tired. That the flutter in my stomach is leftover stress, caffeine on an empty gut, and the fact that I barely slept more than four hours. It’s not attraction. It’s not interest. It’s not… whateverthisweird magnetized buzzing under my skin is.
Probably just low blood sugar.
I pull the blinds down slowly and tiptoe back to the window like a kid sneaking peeks at Santa. The man—Richard, I think, that's what I've been hearing—has wandered over to the flowerbed. Mrs. Daughtry’s lilacs, still blooming because I couldn’t bring myself to dig them up.
He crouches. Slow. Mechanical. Like he’s following steps in a manual on How to Observe Plants.
And then he pokes the bush. With a stick.
He’s talking again, his mouth moving in deliberate, unsure patterns like someone trying to mimic speech rather than speak. I squint through the glass, holding my breath, not quite believing what I’m hearing.
“This flora is... cooperative. It demonstrates low threat potential.”
I clap my hand over my mouth.
Did he just assess theflowersfor aggression?
And it’s not gibberish, exactly. It’s language, technically. English with a grammar that seems duct-taped together and said aloud like it’s his first time ever pushing words out of his face.
He turns his head slightly. Not toward me exactly—but close enough that I freeze like a raccoon caught in headlights. Then it happens. He waves.
Kind of.
It’s less a wave and more a... digital approximation. His hand lifts, slow and unsure, fingers separated like he’s studying how it’s done from a poster and hasn’t yet grasped what the gesture is supposed tomean.There’s no curve to it. No rhythm. Just stiff fingers lifting once, like he’s saluting the idea of humanity instead of any person in particular.
I dart away from the window so fast I nearly trip over my slippers. Heat floods my cheeks, and I feel like a voyeur. Or a lunatic. Or both.
“Did you see that?” Sammy says, scribbling furiously at the kitchen table. Her little tongue sticks out in concentration as she writes in her journal—herAlien Surveillance Log,of course. “That wasnota normal human interaction. Marking that down as ‘Protocol Glitch: Attempted Friendly Signal.’”
I try to keep my voice even. “Honey, maybe we should take a little break from the alien stuff. Okay?”
She looks up at me over her glasses. “Why?”
“Because it’s starting to sound like we’re the crazy ones, not him.”
“But heisweird. You saw it too. You’re just scared to admit it.”
“I’m not scared,” I say, and it’s almost true. “I just don’t want you getting obsessed over a neighbor who’s probably just... awkward. Or foreign. Or both.”
“He talks toflowers,Mom.”
“And some people talk to their dogs.”
“He assessed it for aggression. Whodoesthat?”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
Good question.
I glance at the window, half-expecting him to be standing there watching me now, like some low-budget Slenderman with better pecs.
But the yard is empty.
Still, the hairs on the back of my neck stay upright. Like my subconscious knows something my brain isn’t ready to admit.
