Maya was seventy-two, stubbornly independent, and perfectly content living alone in her weathered little house at the edge of town. The neighbors called it “quaint”—and it was, with ivy on the porch railings and mismatched flower pots she refused to replace. Everything inside had a place, and she liked it that way.
That morning, the kitchen smelled faintly of toast and marmalade. The sky outside was gloomy, the kind of gray that made the trees look flatter and the roads quieter. Maya moved about in her slippers, humming without realizing it, frying a single egg in the pan as rain threatened in the distance.