He moved in three years ago. Around fifty, maybe a decade older than me. Quiet. Reserved. Separate from everything.
On the day he arrived, I decided to welcome him properly. I baked banana bread, walked across the street, and knocked.
The door opened just a crack. He looked at me as though I had startled him.
“Hi. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Anna,” I said brightly.
He barely smiled. His “thank you” was almost a whisper before the door shut again.
I knocked once more. “Your banana bread!”
The door opened just long enough for him to take the plate. I never saw that plate again.
I told myself he was just shy. Extremely shy.
Still, I felt him around.
