My name is Sarah, and I’m 35 years old.

I work as a secretary for an insurance company, living a life that’s mostly unremarkable and invisible to the world around me.

The only real disruption in my otherwise quiet routine came in the form of Mrs. Raines — my 65-year-old neighbor, known for her sharp tongue and a yappy Pomeranian whose bark matched her piercing voice.

Like clockwork, she would be out in her garden each morning, meticulously tending to her roses and offering unsolicited commentary on everything from my “boring but practical” wardrobe to my apparently offensive habit of leaving the recycling bin out past noon on collection day.

I always responded the same way, with a polite smile and a cheery, “Good morning to you, too, Mrs. Raines.”

And that was our pattern for three years.

Ezoic
She lived loudly; I kept to myself.

Then, all of a sudden, the daily barrage of comments and barking stopped.

It took me two full days to realize how quiet things had become.

By the third day, I found myself glancing toward her house each time I picked up the mail, noticing the absence of her usual critiques and the dog’s shrill yapping.

No, shears snipping roses. No complaints about Mr. Wilson’s lawn across the street. Just silence.

By day five, the quiet felt unnerving.

I figured she had maybe gone to visit a relative — I remembered her mentioning a sister in Cleveland once, between remarks about my “touristy wind chimes.”