I Buried My First Love After He Died in a Fire 30 Years Ago – I Mourned Him Until I Realized Who My New Neighbor Was

I spun on my heel and hurried inside, heart hammering. As soon as the door clicked shut. I locked the deadbolt. My phone buzzed in my hand — Janet, checking in again, but I ignored it.

Instead, I pressed my forehead against the cool wooden door, willing the world to make sense.

Three days.

That’s how long I played ghost in my own home, counting the sedans outside.

I locked the deadbolt.

On the third night, I sat at the kitchen table and stared at my old yearbook, running my finger over Gabriel’s picture until the page grew soft.

By the fourth morning, I was almost convinced I’d imagined everything. That’s when someone knocked. Three times — slow, sure, deliberately.

I hovered at the door, fingers trembling over the chain.

“Who is it?” I called, voice thin.

“It’s Elias,” came the reply. “I’m your new neighbor. Thought I’d introduce myself properly.”

I cracked the door just wide enough to see him, basket in hand.

“Hi,” I managed, not trusting my own voice.

“I’m your new neighbor.”

He lifted a basket. “These muffins are for you so you don’t complain to the HOA if I forget to mow the lawn.”

I tried to laugh like a normal neighbor.

Then his sleeve slid back.