My little hometown was modest, tucked between two pristine white homes with manicured lawns and a weathered, overgrown house that seemed forgotten by time.

That owner’s house is Mrs. Calloway, my elderly neighbor who lived two doors down.

I never expected her to notice me, let alone wave me over one brisk spring morning.

You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

“It’s been five months since I moved in, but I guess I still count as new,” I replied with a tentative smile.

Her eyes, sharp and deeply observant, softened. “Would you sit with me for a moment? I could use some company,” she said.

“Do you have any family?” I asked one evening as we sipped tea on her porch.

“Not anymore,” she said softly. The finality in her tone discouraged further questions.

One afternoon, as I cleaned her mantle, she spoke up unexpectedly. “You remind me of someone,” she said, her voice tinged with wistful emotion.

“Who?” I asked, pausing mid-dust.

“Someone I knew a long time ago,” she murmured.

Her funeral was as understated as her life. A handful of strangers attended, none of whom seemed to know her well.

“I’ll miss you, Mrs. Calloway,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Thank you for everything.