PART 1

I had known Dorothy nearly my entire life, so when a young stranger began visiting her house every day, I tried not to interfere.

Dorothy was eighty-three and had lived next door since before I was born. After her husband died, she became more than a neighbor. She was the woman who watched me when my mother worked late, made grilled cheese when I refused dinner, and sat beside me during thunderstorms.

As I grew older, our roles changed. I brought groceries, cleaned the rooms she struggled to manage, carried her laundry, and checked on her several times a week.

Our routine continued until one Tuesday evening.

I arrived with bread, fruit, and her favorite tea, but Dorothy opened the door only halfway. Her gray hair had been carefully brushed, and there was a strange brightness in her expression.

“You don’t need to visit anymore,” she said. “I have Alex now.”

“Who is Alex?”

“He’s a delivery driver. He brought me a package, and we fell in love.”

I waited for her to laugh, but she remained serious. Before I could ask anything else, she took the groceries and closed the door.

Two days later, I saw Alex leaving her house.

He looked barely twenty, dressed in faded jeans and worn sneakers. When he saw me, he said, “You must be Greta.” The fact that he knew my name unsettled me.

Over the next two weeks, Dorothy disappeared from view. She stopped collecting her mail and answering my calls. Alex came and went almost daily, sometimes staying overnight. Soon, I saw him unlocking her door with his own key.

Whenever I called Dorothy, I received the same message:

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

It did not sound like her. Dorothy usually wrote long messages full of advice and unnecessary details. These replies were identical and unnatural.

Then a package meant for Dorothy was delivered to my porch.

I carried it next door and knocked repeatedly.

No answer.

I called her name.

Silence.

I retrieved the emergency key she had given me years earlier and entered.

The house was spotless—too spotless. Everything looked arranged and untouched.

Neither Dorothy nor Alex was there.

Then I heard a faint knocking beneath the floor.

It came from the basement.

PART 2

I hurried downstairs and heard Dorothy’s weak voice behind the storage-room door.

The handle would not turn. I pushed against the old wood until the latch finally broke.

Dorothy sat on the floor beside several cardboard boxes, one hand resting on her ankle. An overturned stool lay nearby.

She had climbed up to reach a shelf, fallen, and become trapped when the door swung shut.

“Where is Alex?” I demanded.

“He went to the pharmacy.”

Before I could say more, the front door slammed upstairs. Alex’s footsteps raced through the house. When he appeared, his face went pale, and the pharmacy bag slipped from his hand.

He rushed toward Dorothy.

“I was gone for twenty minutes,” he said, his hands shaking.

“That was long enough,” I snapped.

I called the paramedics. While we waited, Alex placed a folded blanket beneath Dorothy’s leg and spoke softly to her.

“Stay with me, Dot. Help is coming.”

“I am not dying,” she muttered.

“I know.”

“Then stop looking at me that way.”

His expression tightened, and I realized he was fighting tears.

The paramedics confirmed that Dorothy had badly sprained her ankle but had not broken it. After they left, I turned toward Alex.

“What is happening here?”

He looked at Dorothy.

“She should tell you.”

I faced her.