I always believed my neighbor lived solely to make my life miserable.
The man next door was gruff, sharp-eyed, and perpetually scowling. He had perfected the art of silent hostility. Every slammed gate, every complaint about my fence line, and every time he “accidentally” sprayed weed killer a little too close to my garden felt deliberate. I told myself to ignore him. I told myself he was lonely, bitter, and bored. But the morning he dumped an entire mound of dirt onto my rose bed, I knew he had crossed a line.
What I did not know was that he had already planned something far worse, or perhaps far greater, something that would bind our lives together in ways I never imagined.
I loved mornings in the suburbs. The quiet weighted it, like a deep breath before the world woke up. I would sit on my porch with a mug of coffee, my notebook balanced on my knee, sketching bouquet ideas or jotting down orders. I was a florist, and my business ran mostly through online requests and word of mouth. Summer was my busiest season, especially wedding season. Brides loved roses grown by hand, roses with imperfections that proved they were real.
My garden was my pride. Rows of pale pinks, deep reds, and soft creams curved gently toward the fence line. At least, they had.
That morning, I took one sip of coffee and glanced toward the flower bed. I nearly choked.
Where my roses should have been stood a brutal heap of dark soil, dumped without care. Crushed stems poked through it like broken bones. The scent of fresh earth mixed cruelly with the sharp green smell of torn leaves.
“What the hell?” I whispered.
My heart slammed against my ribs as rage flared hot and fast. There was only one person who could have done this.
“Not again,” I muttered as I rose from my chair. “That miserable old man.”
I stormed across my yard, stones biting into the soles of my sandals, ready to unleash years of swallowed anger. I stopped short at the edge of his property.
Cars lined the driveway. They were unfamiliar, dark, quiet, and solemn.
A woman from the next street stood near the gate, her hands folded tightly in front of her.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice suddenly unsteady.
She looked at me with pity. “Oh, you didn’t hear? Harold passed away last night. Heart attack.”
The words drained the heat from my body. My anger collapsed in on itself and sank straight into the ruined soil of my garden.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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