At 62, I thought I lived on the kind of street where nothing truly bad could happen. Our neighborhood was quiet, predictable, and filled with people who had been there for decades. Retired couples watered flowers, lawns stayed trimmed, and everyone waved from porches. It felt safe simply because it had always been calm.
Then I found a small strip of gray tape stuck to my front door.
I had just returned from visiting my sister and assumed it was meaningless. I peeled it off and threw it away without thinking much about it. Later that day, I noticed the same tape on several neighboring houses, including Linda’s across the street.
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