Just outside the apartment building, there was a cobblestone courtyard. A timeless wrought-iron fence stretched all around, making the building look like Cinderella’s house more than an apartment complex. The sun warmed the small puddles from the rain that had been sent to earth the night before. Two small feel stood in the puddle directly outside the old wooden door with misted-glass windows. The feet overlapped a little, and Anna rubbed one on top of the other in the puddle. From the far side of the yard, old Mrs. Lavalle stood in her garden of Eden, tall and stately. The woman was widowed eight years prior. She herself had no grandchildren; she fussed and worried over Anna like only a grandmother would. On the days when Anna didn’t show up in the courtyard at precisely 11 A.M., Mrs. Lavalle marched upstairs with a pot of steaming hot chicken soup to Anna’s top floor apartment. At eighty-two years old, the old woman was still running strong.
This day, Mrs. Lavalle stood up from pruning her forsythias to find Anna lingering just outside the door. As she watched, she took note of Anna’s fidgetiness - how she rubbed her feet together, how she twirled her wrists around and around, and how she slightly swayed back and forth in place. Anna’s eyes were thoughtful, frightened-looking, haunted, as if to walk out the gate, Anna would lose herself all together.
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