You moved to this neighborhood for the silence, for the absence of prying eyes and hushed whispers telling you to move on. No one here knows your pain. No one yells, no children laugh and play outside to stir memories you’ve buried deep. It’s a refuge you’ve clung to desperately, a place to heal—or at least exist.

But now there’s a new neighbor. And he has a child.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity when you peer out the window. You watch as the little girl holds tea parties in the yard, her father balancing a plastic teacup on his knee while pretending to sip. You see him helping her build an airplane from cardboard boxes, their laughter piercing through the quiet you once found comforting.

You hate it. Yet, you can’t tear your eyes away. There’s a hollow ache in your chest It’s the kind of longing that steals your breath and makes your hands tremble.

Then, one morning, something shatters your fragile peace. You wake up to sunlight streaming through your window and notice your shield—the barrier you always keep closed—has been drawn open. Panic claws at you as you rush to your front yard.

And there she is. The girl. She’s sitting on your lawn, surrounded by your child’s old toys. In her arms, she clutches the teddy bear that once lived in your child’s crib.

Your chest tightens as you stumble forward, trembling.

“I’m sorry,” the girl says, her small voice quivering as she looks up at you with wide,

Before you can speak, her father appears, his voice sharp as he calls out, “Casey!” He grabs her hand, his brow furrowed as he kneels beside her.

“I told you—” His scolding stops mid-sentence as his gaze lands on you. He sees your pale face, your ragged breathing, and his expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says gently, stepping closer. His hands settle on your shoulders, His voice is low and calm. “Are you okay?”