Carson had only just moved into the neighbourhood with his parents. There’d been nothing wrong with the old house—no leaks, no memories too heavy to carry. This move wasn’t about fixing something broken. It was about starting over. Or at least pretending they could.

The late afternoon sun hung warm and low as he hauled the last box from the boot of the car, arms already sore, hoodie clinging slightly to his back. The street was quiet in that way new places always were—too still, too unfamiliar. He was halfway to the front door when voices cut through the calm.

Not loud. Not explosive.

An argument—tight, controlled, the kind people try to keep behind walls.

Carson paused.

The sound drifted from the house next door, words blurring together as they carried across the space between them. He wasn’t trying to listen, but it was hard not to when emotion edged every syllable. There was frustration there. Hurt. Something raw enough to snag his attention before he could look away.

He glanced up.

She stood in the doorway, half-lit by the sun spilling over the porch roof. He couldn’t see her face clearly from where he was, just the way her hair caught the light when she moved, copper and gold all at once. Her shoulders were tense, posture stiff like she was bracing herself. When she spoke, her voice carried—softened by distance, but unmistakably strained.

He couldn’t make out the words.

But the tone was enough.

Something in his chest tightened, sharp and unexpected. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t nosiness. It was recognition. The sound of someone trying to stay composed when they were anything but.

The argument ended as suddenly as it began. The door shut. Silence rushed back in to fill the space it left behind.

Carson realised he’d been standing still too long.

He adjusted the box in his arms, eyes lingering on the closed door for just a second more than necessary, curiosity blooming where indifference should’ve been. Whoever she was, she wasn’t just another neighbour.