Daphne
As I turned the key in the ignition, and began to drive away, I couldn't stop my gaze from drifting to the rearview mirror, searching the dispersing market crowd one last time. No sign of that blue flannel shirt. My shoulders relaxed slightly as I pulled onto the main road. The drive home would give me time to clear my head, to shake off this strange, unsettled feeling that had been following me since yesterday's unexpected visitor.
The trees blurred past my window, the familiar route home requiring little concentration. I'd driven these roads so many times I could practically do it with my eyes closed. Five years. Five years of the same routine, the same quiet existence, the same carefully maintained distance from everything and everyone. Until now.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Why was I letting one friendly stranger throw me off balance? He was just another person moving to the area, nothing more. The fact that he'd chosen the Henderson property, so close to mine, was unfortunate but hardly catastrophic. I'd managed to keep to myself this long; one chatty neighbor wouldn't change that.
Yet as I rounded the final bend and my cabin came into view, I found myself slowing down, eyes scanning the road ahead for any sign of another vehicle. The Henderson place was just beyond the next curve, hidden from view by a thick stand of pines. Had he already started clearing the land? Would I hear chainsaws and machinery breaking the silence I'd grown so accustomed to?
The cabin looked exactly as I'd left it—peaceful, solitary, mine. I parked and unloaded the remaining crates, carrying them inside before collapsing onto the worn sofa. The market always left me drained, but today felt different. It wasn't just the physical fatigue of standing for hours; it was something else. Something I didn't want to examine too closely.
I forced myself up and put the kettle on. Tea would help. Tea always helped.
As I waited for the water to boil, I found myself at the window, looking down the road. The silence stretched out, broken only by birdsong and the occasional rustle of leaves. No sounds of construction. No rumbling trucks. Nothing to indicate I had a new neighbor at all.
Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe the Henderson place was too run-down, too much work. Maybe he'd found somewhere better.
The kettle whistled, pulling me back to the present. I poured the steaming water over chamomile and mint, breathing in the soothing aroma. This was what mattered—this moment, this home I'd built for myself. Not some stranger with an easy smile and too-perceptive eyes.
I settled back on the sofa with my tea, determined to focus on planning next week's garden work. But my notebook remained closed on my lap as my thoughts drifted. What had Garrett meant about "neighborly relations"? Was he expecting some kind of friendship? The idea made my stomach knot. I hadn'tcome here for friendship. I hadn't come here to connect with anyone I'd come here to forget.
The memory rose unbidden, sharp and painful as a thorn. I pushed it away, focusing on the steam rising from my mug. Five years of practice had taught me how to redirect my thoughts, how to stay present instead of drowning in the past. I wouldn't let Garrett's arrival drag me back into old patterns.
After finishing my tea, I forced myself into motion. The greenhouse needed attention, and physical work had always been my most reliable remedy for unwanted thoughts. I spent the rest of the afternoon transplanting seedlings, checking soil moisture, and planning my summer crop rotation. The familiar tasks settled my nerves, grounding me in the present.
By evening, I'd almost convinced myself that everything would return to normal. So what if someone was moving in down the road? It didn't have to change anything about my life. I could still maintain my boundaries, still protect the peace I'd worked so hard to create.
I was chopping vegetables for dinner when I heard it—the distant rumble of an engine coming down the road. My knife paused mid-slice as I listened, my body tensing involuntarily. The sound grew louder, then stopped, somewhere beyond my property line.
The Henderson place.
I resumed chopping, my movements more forceful than necessary. It didn't matter. It didn't affect me. I would continue my evening exactly as planned.
But as I ate my simple dinner on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and pink, I couldn't help wondering what Garrett was doing right now. Was he settling into that dilapidated old farmhouse? Planning renovations? Or had he simply dropped off supplies before returning to wherever he was currently staying?
"Stop it," I muttered to myself, setting my empty plate aside. "It doesn't matter."
I went to bed early that night, determined to reset my routine. Tomorrow would be Sunday—greenhouse in the morning, garden work until noon, then preserving whatever needed attention. No markets, no visitors, no disruptions. Just me and my land, exactly as I preferred.
But sleep came fitfully, punctuated by dreams I couldn't quite remember upon waking. Dreams of voices and footsteps and someone watching from just beyond the tree line. I rose with the dawn, my body moving through the familiar morning rituals despite my restless night. Coffee. Stretching. A quick check of the weather outside my window. The day promised to be clear and warm—perfect for the garden work I'd planned.
I was halfway through my coffee when I heard it—the harsh mechanical whine of a chainsaw, cutting through the morning quiet like a knife. My mug paused halfway to my lips as I listened, confirming what I already knew. The sound was coming from the Henderson place.
Garrett had wasted no time.
I set my mug down harder than necessary, sloshing coffee onto the table. He'd warned me, I reminded myself. He'd literally told me he would be clearing brush this week. I had no right to be annoyed. I had no right to expect silence just because I'd grown used to it.
Still, the jarring sound set my teeth on edge. I abandoned my coffee and moved to the porch, as if seeing the source of the noise might somehow make it more bearable. From my vantage point, I couldn't see anything beyond the trees that separated our properties, but the sound was unmistakable—the rhythmic growl of the chainsaw, punctuated by the crack and crash of falling branches.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed despite the distance and the screen of trees. The noise wasn't just an inconvenience; it was an intrusion. A reminder that my carefully constructed solitude had a new, unpredictable variable.
"It's just clearing brush," I muttered to myself. "It won't last forever."
But as I turned to go back inside, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. The chainsaw's roar followed me through the morning, an unwelcome soundtrack to tasks that usually unfolded in peaceful quiet. I found myself making more noise than necessary—banging cabinet doors, humming tunelessly as I worked in the greenhouse, even turning on the small radio I rarely used.
Anything to drown out the evidence of Garrett's presence.
By midday, the chainsaw had fallen silent, but the damage to my routine was done. I felt edgy, unsettled, unable to sink into the rhythm of my usual Sunday. Every unexpected sound made me pause, listening for the mechanical whine to start up again.
