I thought letting my neighbor use my backyard for one afternoon was a simple favor. But when I came home, one small detail felt wrong, and the uneasy chafar silence around his house made me question why he had asked me in the first place.
My name is Riley, and I am 32 years old. Until last weekend, I believed I knew the people who lived around me.
Not deeply, of course.
I did not know their private fears or family secrets. Still, I knew who waved while taking out the trash.
I knew whose dog barked at delivery trucks. I knew which neighbor borrowed tools and always returned them.
Mark lived next door to me for almost two years.
He was quiet, polite, and easy to overlook.
He kept his lawn trimmed.
He brought my garbage cans in once during a storm.
When my kitchen sink clogged, he recommended a plumber who charged me less than the first company I called.
