Then one evening, everything changed.
It was a typical night. The air felt warm but not sticky. The pool lights cast a soft glow onto the water, turning it a gentle shade of blue. My husband and I were standing near the edge, towels wrapped around our shoulders, talking quietly.
That was when I felt it.
That strange sensation of being watched.
I turned my head toward the fence.
And there, on the other side of the wooden slats, stood their son.
He looked about twelve years old.
He wasn’t climbing.
He wasn’t trying to sneak into our yard.
He wasn’t calling out or making noise.
He was just standing very still, as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible.
In his hands was a folded piece of paper.
He pressed it carefully against the fence, holding it there for a moment, waiting.
The way he stood made my chest tighten.
Not because he was doing anything wrong.
Because he looked… serious.
And nervous.
And far too careful for a boy his age.
I took a step closer.
Then another.
When I reached the fence, I could see the paper more clearly. It was handwritten. The letters were uneven, as if someone had written slowly, with focus, maybe even with trembling hands.
The boy didn’t speak.
