It was small, barely more than a shed, with a rusty tin roof and walls that looked anything but steady. “Why would anyone have that?” I muttered as I sat on my couch, looking out the window. The more I wanted to sit down and write my collection of stories, the more obsessed I got with Mrs. Harrington. Because it wasn’t the shack that was a mystery. It was the woman herself. From the moment I moved in, she had been distant, almost to the point of being rude.
“I’m Maya,” I said on the first day when I was inspecting my new backyard.I expected her to at least say hello and introduce herself. But she avoided eye contact, brushed off any attempts at conversation, and made it clear that she wasn’t interested in neighborly chats. I only discovered her name because I heard one of the neighborhood kids calling her on his newspaper round. But still, the strangest thing about her was her routine.Every day, like clockwork, the old woman would head to that shack at 9 a.m. and again at 9 p.m. She always had two shopping bags in hand, and she would go into the shack for about 20 minutes before returning to her house. “What are you doing in there, Mrs. Harrington?” I asked myself in the living room. “What’s in there? Who’s in there?”Suddenly, I was a detective trying to figure out what the woman from next door was up to. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she was doing in there. Was she storing something? Hiding something?For three days, I watched her from my window, my curiosity only growing stronger. What could possibly be so important? One afternoon, I decided to find out for myself. I waited until I saw her step outside with her bags, then casually strolled over, pretending to be out for a walk.
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