I moved to New Maple in early spring, right as the snow banks along the curbs turned to slush

and the neighbourhood kids started trading sleds for bikes. The place was filled with people who

waved from their porches and jogged with dogs that didn't need leashes. Quiet, unbothered and polite.

I told myself I was ready for quiet.

I'd taken a job teaching art at the local high school and the rental.

An aging two bedroom with creaky stairs and yellow siding was the best I could afford

without roommates.

I told people I'd moved to focus on my work to get out of the city.

That part was true.

The part I didn't talk about was a slow disintegration of a relationship I'd spent too many years in,

and how silence had started to feel safer than conversation.

The Averys lived two doors down.

I noticed them on my first walk around the neighbourhood. The house had blue shutters and a deep green lawn already trimmed to perfection.

Tulips lined the path to their front porch in a single even row.

I saw Mrs. Avery trimming them with garden shears one morning, her white sun hat covering

most of her face.

She didn't look up when I passed, only nodded.

It took a week before she spoke to me.

You're the one who moved into 214, aren't you?

She asked as I carried in groceries, the old Duncan house.

She stood on the sidewalk with her hands clasped in front of her, her voice soft but precise.

Her smile stayed on her face the whole time we talked.

...