The morning of the funeral was as gray and still as the house next door. I am Claire, a thirty-year-old woman living a quiet, solitary life in a house with a mailbox that leans a bit to the left—a quirk I never bothered to fix because some things are better left imperfect. For three years, that mailbox was the bridge between me and Mrs. Whitmore. It started when I noticed her mail piling up like a neglected mountain. Unopened bills and catalogs sat there for days, a silent alarm that no one was paying attention. When I finally knocked, an…
I Took Care of My Elderly Neighbor – After She Died, the Police Knocked on My Door, and When I Learned Why, My Knees Buckled
