She spends mornings in her small garden. In the evenings, she plays old Elvis records on a vintage turntable. Sometimes I hear the soft crackle of vinyl through her open windows while I’m washing dishes.
I figured she liked being alone. I know I did.
Everything changed one Tuesday night at exactly midnight when someone knocked on my door.
I had been half asleep on the couch with the TV on. The knock jolted me upright. When I pulled back the curtain, Linda was standing under my porch light in a white bathrobe and thin slippers, her hair loose, her face pale.
I opened the door right away.
“Colin, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “Water is pouring out from under my sink and I can’t stop it.”
I grabbed a flashlight and slipped on my shoes. The air outside felt heavy, like a storm was coming.
When we stepped into her kitchen, I could hear it. A loud hiss. A copper pipe under the sink had split, spraying water everywhere. The floor was already soaked.
“I tried turning the little knobs,” she said, kneeling beside me, her hands wet. “They won’t move.”
“They’re probably stuck,” I said. “We need the main valve in the basement.”