For twenty years, I was invisible by design.
In our quiet Virginia suburb, people knew me as John from number 42. The retired man with the neat lawn and the rose bushes that always won ribbons at the county fair. The one who fixed bikes, returned lost dogs, waved politely, and never raised his voice. I kept to myself. I drank my tea. I slept through storms.
That night, the storm didn’t bother me either—at first.
Rain hammered the roof just after midnight, thunder rolling low and steady. I was in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when I heard something that didn’t belong to the weather. A sound too small. Too human.