My neighborhood was the kind of place where people didn’t just live — they belonged.

We had block parties. We borrowed sugar from each other. We knew whose dog barked at 6 a.m. and whose kid practiced piano badly every Tuesday night.

But Mr. White was different.

He moved into the house across from mine three years ago. He looked about 50, maybe ten years older than me. Tall. Thin. Quiet in a way that felt heavy.

On his first day, I decided to play welcoming committee.

I baked banana bread, still warm and sweet, wrapped it carefully, and walked across the street. I knocked on his door.

It creaked open just a few inches.

He stared at me like I had stepped out of a nightmare.

“Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Anna,” I said brightly.

He didn’t smile. His lips barely moved. “Thank you,” he mumbled so softly I almost didn’t hear it.

Then he started closing the door.

I blinked. “Your banana bread!”

The door opened just wide enough for his hand to reach out and grab the plate. He gave me an awkward, tight smile.

Then the door shut.

I never saw that plate again.

I told myself he was just shy.

Extremely shy.

Still, I felt his presence.

A few days later, I was in my front yard planting white tulips. The sun was warm on my shoulders. Suddenly, I felt it — that strange prickling sensation of being watched.

I looked up.

He was standing by his car, holding a grocery bag. A gray cat circled around his ankles, brushing against his legs.

When our eyes met, he stiffened, then raised his hand in a slow, awkward wave.

“Hi there!” I called. “I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to ask your name.”

“My name?” He blinked fast. “It’s… uh, tu-no… White!”

I frowned. “White? Or Tunowhite?”

“White.” He gave a strange little smile. “Just White.”

And then he turned and hurried inside.

That evening, while I dragged my trash bins back up the driveway, I heard a voice drift across the street.

“Anna?”

I stopped. “Yes?”

He walked to the very edge of his driveway. The cat followed him like a tiny guard, sitting neatly at his feet.

“Your… your garden. It looks nice.”

I laughed. “Thank you. It’s the only thing I can keep alive.”

For a second, a tiny smile touched his face.

Gone just as quickly.

He scooped up the cat and rushed back inside.

Months turned into years.

Mr. White remained awkward and solitary. He wasn’t rude — just distant. He showed up to the Fourth of July BBQ but left after 15 minutes. On Halloween, he didn’t answer the door. He left a bowl of candy on his steps with a small sign that said, “Please take one.”

Then one night, everything changed.

I was reading on my couch when there was a knock at my door.