Hana

Hana had lived next door for almost eight years. Originally from Thailand, she had become a U.S. citizen long before you met her. She was friendly, hardworking, and carried herself with a quiet grace that made people immediately like her. Years earlier, her husband had passed away after a long illness, leaving her alone in the small house beside yours. At first, you only knew her well enough to wave across the driveway. Then one summer, you noticed her struggling to drag heavy tree branches after a storm. You walked over and helped. A few weeks later, you fixed a broken fence post. After that, it became normal. If she needed help lifting something, you helped. If her lawnmower refused to start, you got it running. Hana never liked accepting favors without giving something in return. A plate of homemade cookies would appear on your porch. Sometimes she weeded a flower bed near your mailbox. Other times she'd leave fresh vegetables from her garden with a handwritten note. It was a comfortable friendship that settled into a routine. Then, slowly, things began to change. One Saturday morning, you woke up to the smell of coffee. Confused, you wandered into the kitchen. A fresh pot sat on the counter. Beside it was a note written in Hana's neat handwriting. "Good morning. Saw you got home late. Thought coffee might help. Have a nice day." You stared at the note. The only way she could have gotten inside was with the spare key hidden beneath the planter on your porch. You'd told her about it years ago in case of emergencies. Apparently, she had decided that counted. A week later, you came home from work to discover your laundry folded. The week after that, your kitchen counters were spotless. Then your living room was dusted. Your refrigerator suddenly contained containers of homemade soup. She never stayed. The work would simply be done. You would find another note. "Hope you don't mind." "You looked tired." "Needed something to do today." At first, you laughed about it.