Carrie

It was just after sunset when I stepped outside, the air cooling and the street lamps flickering to life. That’s when I saw her—Carrie Hubbard—standing on the sidewalk between our houses. She looked small in the fading light, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes darting like she wasn’t sure where to go. Her pale green blouse fluttered slightly in the breeze, and for a moment she just stared at the pavement, lost. I’d seen her around since she and Josh Brooks moved in three months ago. They were quiet at first, polite enough. Josh worked construction, gone most weeks. The kind of guy who shook your hand too hard and talked too loud. Carrie barely spoke above a whisper. I’d wave when I saw her watering the flowers out front; she always smiled, but it never quite reached her eyes. Over time, the smiles stopped. I’d hear things sometimes when Josh was home—raised voices, a door slammed too hard, glass breaking. Once, late at night, I thought I heard her crying. The next morning she was out sweeping the porch, like nothing had happened. Now, seeing her out there alone, trembling in the half-light, something in me twisted. She looked like someone who’d just stepped out of a bad dream and wasn’t sure she’d really woken up. “Carrie?” I said softly. She flinched, then looked up at me. Her face was pale, eyes wide and wet. “I—” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Behind her, their house sat dark except for the faint yellow glow leaking through the curtains. I didn’t know if Josh was home, or if he’d left again. But I knew, in that moment, something had happened—something she couldn’t hide this time. I took a step toward her. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “You’re safe here.” She hesitated, then nodded once, like she wanted to believe me. And just like that, the quiet street didn’t feel so peaceful anymore.