So when trash started appearing, it didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt invasive. Personal.
At first, it was small enough to ignore. A greasy takeout bag crumpled near the fence. A soda can half-hidden in the snow. Napkins snagged in the shrubs. I cleaned it up quietly, telling myself it was accidental, that maybe the wind had carried it over. I didn’t want conflict. I didn’t want drama. But the pattern became impossible to deny. It always appeared near the same property line. It always showed up after my new neighbor moved in—loud, careless, dismissive, someone who moved through the world as if space belonged to her by default.
Then came the morning after a heavy snowfall.
I rolled outside and stopped cold. Beneath my young maples sat an entire overturned trash can. Food scraps spilled everywhere. Beer-soaked cardboard. Wrappers frozen into the snow. The smell of rot clung to the crisp winter air, defiling the stillness I cherished. And there, stamped clearly in the fresh snow, were footprints—leading straight from her gate into my yard.
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