Back in my apartment, door locked. I tossed the folder onto the table, filled a glass at the sink, drank it down. Exhaustion warred with a strange clarity. The truth was out, yet confusion and a pitiful shred of understanding remained. She wasn't a monster, just shattered. It brought little comfort. In the dim light, I reopened the folder, sifted through the clippings. Insignificant fragments: my high school track team placing third in a district meet, a college newspaper article I'd written, a blurred photo from a local café book club years ago. They sketched the profile of a stranger – the life her son damaged, then she silently monitored. A chill settled, not of fear, but profound sorrow.
Weeks Later
A superficial calm returned. I avoided her less, but encounters thickened the air. At the mailboxes, she'd step aside. In the elevator, we'd watch the floor numbers climb. Hearing her door open, I'd freeze until it closed again. Once, locked out of my apartment, I was about to call building management when her door opened. Seeing me, she paused, said nothing, and shut it. Moments later, a note slid under my door: a locksmith's number. The handwriting as precise as ever. I used the number. Waiting for the locksmith, I picked up the note, studied it, folded it, and pocketed it. We didn't speak again, but the suffocating hostility, the fear, slowly dissipated, replaced by a heavy, awkward coexistence.
An Exchange
A month later, we met at the mailboxes. Awkwardness hung between us. She spoke first. "Snowball... he enjoys the windowsill sun lately." "That's good," I offered. Silence. Then she said, "I've contacted a realtor. Looking for a smaller place. Up north." I looked at her. This wasn't a plea; it was information. I nodded. "I hope... you find somewhere suitable." "Thank you," she replied softly. Then, almost inaudibly, "I won't forget... your forbearance." She returned to her apartment.
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