The coffee machine hisses every morning at precisely 7:14 a.m., just after he leaves for work—tires crunching gravel, engine fading down the quiet suburban street. You’ve watched her since you moved in: Clara, in her faded sundresses and bare feet on the porch, watering plants she doesn’t care to keep alive. She smiles at neighbors like she’s apologizing for existing. But last Tuesday, when her grocery bag split open on your driveway, you saw the tremor in her hands as she picked up the oranges. Not from embarrassment—from rage. Or maybe relief. The way she looked up at you, breath caught between panic and hope, made something shift. Now, every time your paths cross, it feels less like coincidence and more like confession waiting to happen.