She’s not back.
I knew she wouldn’t be.
But seeing it—seeing how untouched the house is—hits harder than I expect.
Newspapers are scattered across the porch steps.
The mailbox is overflowing.
The potted plants by the door are frozen solid, brittle leaves curled in on themselves.
Her cats weave in and out of the porch railing, tails flicking, rubbing against the pots like they're waiting for someone who should’ve opened the door days ago.
Someone’s been feeding them.
Someone’s been letting them in and out.
Which means someone knows she’s gone.
I get out of the car, my breath fogging the cold air, and walk up the sidewalk.
I grab the newspapers.
Collect the mail spilling everywhere like the house is crying for her.
I’m halfway down the steps when a voice cuts through the quiet.
“HEY! Hey, you! What are you doing there?!”
I turn slowly.
An older woman stands at the hedge, hands on her hips, glare sharp enough to slice granite.
I lift my hands in surrender. “I’m just grabbing the mail. I’m a friend of Jade’s.”
Her expression softens a notch. “I’m the neighbor. Been taking care of the cats.”
I nod. “Ah. That makes sense. I, uh… I thought they’d be back today.”
She waves a hand. “Oh, they said later tonight. Or sometime soon. They told me.”
Which is a lie.
But she doesn’t know that I know that.
“Right,” I say. “Yeah. That’s what I heard too.”
I offer her the stack of mail. “Can you give this to them? I didn’t want the wind blowing it everywhere.”
She takes it, nodding approvingly. “Good boy. Kids these days don’t think to do that.”
I force a small smirk. “We’re working on a school project. End-of-semester thing. I was hoping she’d be back so we could get started.”
“Oh,” she says, turning toward her walkway. “I’m sure she’ll be home soon.”
Yeah.
Sure.
