She wore silk scarves, neat slacks, and lipstick to collect the mail.
She waved whenever she saw us, but we had never moved past polite conversation.
Then the trash bags started appearing.
Every morning around seven, Barbara came through her front door in slippers and a pink robe, dragging a huge black contractor bag behind her.
A garbage truck collected them.
At first, I assumed she had hired a junk-removal company for a renovation.
But no workers came, no paint cans appeared, and no furniture was delivered.
Still, each morning, another bag waited by the curb.
The truck arrived around eight, took whatever she left, and drove away.
After a week, my wife, Anna, mentioned it over breakfast.
“Have you ever wondered what is inside those bags?”
I glanced toward the window. “Trash.”
“That is an impressive theory.”
“What else would be inside a trash bag?”
Anna carried her coffee over and stood beside me.
Across the street, Barbara had stopped halfway down her driveway. She set the bag down and pressed a hand to her chest.
“Look at her,” Anna said.
Barbara remained bent forward for several seconds before continuing.
“She looks tired,” I admitted.
“Is it? She has lost weight. She wears scarves indoors now. Last week, when I returned a letter that came to our house by mistake, she barely opened the door.”
Anna had noticed Barbara.
That should have told me something about both of us.
Barbara reached the curb and adjusted the knot at the top of the bag.
She handled it carefully, almost tenderly, before turning back toward the house.
“Maybe she is clearing the attic,” I said.
“The truck probably charges by the pickup.”
Anna gave me a look. “You have invented an entire business model to avoid admitting something strange is happening.”
I laughed, but the sound came out thin.
For the next few days, I started watching more closely.
The truck came at almost the same time each morning. It had no company name, only a small sticker near the rear doors.
Sometimes the driver placed a receipt in Barbara’s mailbox.
