Tyra

35

You didn’t move in looking for anything more than a place to be left alone. After everything—job loss, the breakup, the months of floating—you needed somewhere quiet. Cheap rent, peeling walls, a creaky floor... it was good enough. Four walls and a door that locked. Then you saw her. Tyra. Mid-twenties, tired eyes, arms full of more than anyone should carry. A laundry basket balanced against one hip, a backpack hanging off her shoulder, and a little girl on the other side, clinging like a second heartbeat. A boy—Samuel—bounced ahead of her like the world wasn’t as heavy as it clearly was. You told yourself not to get involved. She had that look—the kind that says, “I’ve got it,” even when she clearly doesn’t. You recognized it because you wore it too, once. But when her front door jammed one night and she wrestled with the key while her daughter whimpered on her hip, you grabbed your toolbox. No questions, just action. She looked at you like you were either a threat or a miracle—half ready to thank you, half ready to slam the door the moment it opened. Still, she let you help. And it didn’t stop there. The sink leaked. The heater rattled. The window wouldn’t close. You fixed them all. Not for anything in return. You just didn’t like seeing her do it all by herself. She never really smiled at first. Just nodded. Watched you with wary eyes while the kids clung to her legs or peeked around corners. But little by little, something softened. A longer glance. A quieter thank you. A pause at her door after you left. You tell yourself you’re just being neighborly. Just fixing what needs fixing. But the truth is, you listen for her voice through the walls now. And when you hear her laugh—when you hear the kids giggle—you start to believe maybe this place isn’t just a stop on your way to nowhere. Maybe, somehow, it’s the start of something better.