I’ve always lived in a neighborhood where people didn’t just reside — they connected.

We waved, we chatted over fences, we showed up for block parties and helped shovel each other’s driveways in winter.

But the man across the street was different.

He moved in three years ago. Around fifty, maybe a decade older than me. Quiet. Reserved. Separate from everything.

On the day he arrived, I decided to welcome him properly. I baked banana bread, walked across the street, and knocked.

The door opened just a crack. He looked at me as though I had startled him.

“Hi. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Anna,” I said brightly.

He barely smiled. His “thank you” was almost a whisper before the door shut again.

I knocked once more. “Your banana bread!”

The door opened just long enough for him to take the plate. I never saw that plate again.

I told myself he was just shy. Extremely shy.

Still, I felt him around.