I spent weeks circling that quiet house, pretending not to stare while those pale strands shifted gently in the breeze. In a neighborhood where nothing ever changed, they felt almost ominous. I built entire stories around them—rituals, experiments, secret projects—anything to fill the gap that simple ignorance had opened. The longer I went without an answer, the more ridiculous my imagination became, and the more embarrassed I felt about how obsessed I was with someone else’s backyard.
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