Swipe right

You stare at Ellie’s profile for another long second.

The photo is ordinary enough — soft outdoor light, that same quiet almost-smile — but seeing her on the app makes the whole morning feel stranger. The coffee. The fence. The open curtains. The terrible joke. And now this.

Your thumb moves before you can talk yourself out of it.

You swipe right.

The screen does the usual little animation. No instant match. Just the next profile already loading underneath. You lock the phone and set it face-down on the couch, pulse a little higher than it should be. Maybe she’ll see it. Maybe she won’t. Either way, you’ve done something you can’t quite take back.

You lean back and try to let the quiet settle again.

It doesn’t last.

A sharp, sudden thud comes from somewhere near the front of the house — heavy enough that you feel it more than hear it. Not next door. Closer. Like something solid hitting the exterior wall or the carport.

You sit up.

Another sound follows a second later: a low scrape, then the distinct clatter of something metallic tipping over. It stops as quickly as it started.

The house is empty. You’re the only one here. No one should be outside.

You stand, walk quietly to the front window, and ease the curtain aside just enough to look out.

The street is still. No cars. No people. Your car sits where you left it. But one of the empty cardboard boxes you’d stacked against the side of the house is now lying on its side near the driveway, and a metal gardening stake that had been leaning against the fence is on the ground a few feet away, like something knocked into it hard.

There’s no one in sight.

You wait, listening. Nothing else moves.

Whatever it was, it’s gone — or still close enough that you can’t see it from this angle.

Your phone buzzes once on the couch behind you.