It had been a normal, slow afternoon. I was walking up the driveway when I noticed our elderly neighbor, Mr. Halvorsen, standing on his porch. He gave me a little wave, like always—just a small nod and that familiar, gentle smile.
“Afternoon,” I called out.
He simply raised his hand again, without a word. Something about him seemed off—perhaps it was his absolute stillness or the way his gaze lingered on me even after I turned away. I didn’t dwell on it and headed inside.
Later that evening, while helping my mom prep dinner, I casually mentioned seeing him on the porch. My mom stopped chopping vegetables and turned to me slowly. “What did you just say?” she asked, her face turning pale. When I repeated that I’d seen him waving, she took a shaky breath. “Honey… Mr. Halvorsen passed away last night. They found him in his sleep this morning.”
I laughed nervously, waiting for the punchline, but it never came. My stomach dropped as the warmth drained from the room. I replayed the encounter in my head—the wave, the stare, the haunting stillness. I hadn’t seen a living man that day; I had seen a shadow echoing a lifetime of habit. To this day, I can’t walk by that porch without feeling eyes on me. Those chills I felt in the kitchen? I’ve never quite shaken them off.
