She Was My Neighbor. Then She Knocked on My Door at Midnight

After my wife died, I became a ghost in my own home. I watered the plants, paid the bills, watched the seasons change through the same window—but I didn’t live. At 63, I thought that was just how it would be: quiet, orderly, and utterly alone. Then Elena moved in next door. She was 52, vibrant, with a laugh that carried through our shared fence. We exchanged pleasantries—“Nice roses,” “Love your garden”—but nothing more. I told myself it was better that way. Safer. For six months, I watched her life from a distance. Morning yoga on her porch. Evenings with a glass of wine and a novel. She never seemed lonely. Just… complete.