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“I heard her only child died young,” she said.
“Car accident or something awful like that. That’s why she doesn’t talk to anyone anymore.”
Ever.
No family came for the holidays. No friends stopped by for coffee. The mailman left packages on her porch, and they’d sit there for days before she’d bring them inside.
But sometimes, late at night, when I was walking our golden retriever around the block, I’d hear something drifting from her house.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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