My little hometown was modest, tucked between two pristine white homes with manicured lawns and a weathered, overgrown house that seemed forgotten by time.

That owner’s house is Mrs. Calloway, my elderly neighbor who lived two doors down.

I never expected her to notice me, let alone wave me over one brisk spring morning.

“You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

“It’s been five months since I moved in, but I guess I still count as new,” I replied with a tentative smile.

Her eyes, sharp and deeply observant, softened. “Would you sit with me for a moment? I could use some company,” she said.

“Do you have any family?” I asked one evening as we sipped tea on her porch.

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