Her name is Clara. She hums old songs while washing dishes. She leaves her shoes by the door like two small boats waiting for a tide that never comes.
She came to me one autumn, a cardboard suitcase and a cat in a crate, said the walls of her childhood had grown too thin. I made space. She made tea. We learned the geography of each other’s silences. And now I am living with my neighbor-s daughter...
And now I am living with my neighbor’s daughter— not as a thief, not as a savior, just as two people who realized that loneliness has the same smell on both sides of the fence. Her name is Clara