Maya chooses to leave behind the busy city life and moves to a peaceful neighborhood on the city’s edge. She hopes to embrace a calm, quiet lifestyle, but her tranquility is soon interrupted when she becomes suspicious of the woman living across the street.
After spending 32 years surrounded by the relentless noise, crowds, and fast pace of the city, I wanted a break — a chance to find some peace. I longed for silence, for a place to relax and breathe freely, and a spot where I could finally write the stories I’d been holding inside me.
So, I found a quaint little home on the outskirts, in a small neighborhood where everyone seemed to know each other and time moved more slowly.
But what I found was nothing like I expected.
“Well, here you are, Maya,” I told myself as I made a cup of tea.
My nearest neighbor was Mrs. Harrington, a woman in her sixties who lived in a worn-down house. The paint was cracking, the shutters hung askew, and the yard was overrun with weeds.
“Maybe she’s just too old to keep up with the upkeep,” my mom suggested over the phone.
“Maybe,” I replied. “Her house does look out of place.”
But it wasn’t her house that really caught my eye.
What fascinated me was a small, rickety shed about twenty feet from Mrs. Harrington’s home. It had a rusty tin roof and walls that looked unstable.
“Who would have something like that?” I muttered, sitting on my couch and staring out the window.
The more I tried to focus on writing my stories, the more my thoughts drifted to Mrs. Harrington. The real mystery wasn’t the shed—it was the woman herself.
From day one, she was distant, almost unfriendly.
“Hi, I’m Maya,” I introduced myself when I was checking out my backyard.
I hoped she’d at least say hello or introduce herself, but she avoided eye contact, brushed off my attempts to talk, and made it clear she didn’t want to be neighborly.
I only learned her name because I overheard a neighborhood kid calling her during his paper route.
But what puzzled me most was her daily routine.
Every day, without fail, Mrs. Harrington would go to that shed at 9 a.m. and again at 9 p.m. She’d always carry two shopping bags, spend about twenty minutes inside, then return home.
“What could she be doing in there?” I wondered from my living room. “What’s inside? Is someone inside?”
I felt like a detective trying to uncover her secret. I couldn’t figure out what she was up to—was she hiding or storing something?
For three days, I observed her from my window, growing more curious.
What could be so important?
One afternoon, I decided to find out. I waited until she stepped out with her bags, then casually walked over, pretending to be out for a stroll.
But the moment Mrs. Harrington noticed me heading toward the shed, she rushed out, her eyes filled with anger.
“Stay away! I’ll call the police!” she yelled in a high, panicked voice.
I froze. I hadn’t expected such a strong reaction.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I just—”
“Just what? Stay out of my business, young lady!” she snapped.
“Okay, I’m going,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
She glared at me until I turned around and walked away, feeling her eyes on my back all the way home.
What could be inside that shed that she was so desperate to hide?
“I’m not stopping,” I told myself as I closed the door behind me. “I have to find out.”
I tried to push it out of my mind, reminding myself it wasn’t my concern. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
At night, I tossed and turned, wondering what was in that shed. The fear and desperation in Mrs. Harrington’s voice didn’t feel right.
I needed answers.
One evening, after seeing her go into the shed at 9 p.m., I decided to investigate again.
I waited until I was sure she was inside with the lights off, then slipped out quietly.
“Why are you doing this, Maya?” I asked myself as I walked down the driveway. “You should just let it go.”
When I reached the shed, I noticed a big padlock on the door. Whatever she was hiding, she wanted it secure.
Then I saw a narrow crack in the wooden door—just wide enough to peek inside. My heart raced as I hesitated.
“Maybe I should just walk away,” I muttered.
But I was too curious to leave.
At first, the inside was too dark to see clearly. As my eyes adjusted, I almost fainted.
Inside were about a dozen dogs—some lying down, some curled up, others pacing nervously.
“Oh, you poor things,” I whispered.
They were all different breeds and sizes but looked thin and tired.
“What on earth?” I exclaimed.
Why was she keeping these dogs? Were they neglected or mistreated?
Without thinking, I started trying to force the lock open.
“Hold on, I’ll get you out!” I said.
When the lock wouldn’t budge, I pounded on the door with my fists, hoping to break it down.
Suddenly, a light flicked on inside Mrs. Harrington’s house. I froze, realizing I’d woken her.
Seconds later, her front door slammed, and I heard her footsteps rushing toward me.
“What are you doing?” she shouted sharply. “Get away!”
“What am I doing? What are you doing keeping these dogs locked up like this? This is animal cruelty! I’m calling the police!”
She reached me, breathless, but instead of anger, I saw desperation in her eyes.
“No, please,” she begged, grabbing my arm. “You don’t understand. Please calm down and listen.”
“How can I calm down when you’re locking up animals like this?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said. “Please hear me out.”
“You have two minutes,” I warned. “After that, I’m calling the authorities.”
“I’m not hurting them,” she explained. “I’m saving them. I feed them.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, confused.
“I take in stray dogs,” she said. “These dogs were abandoned or abused. I bring them here so they’re safe. It started with just one, but now there are about ten.”
“Then why keep them in the shed?”
“There are too many for my house, and I’m allergic to some breeds. If they were inside, I’d end up hospitalized. But I couldn’t just leave them suffering. Here, I make sure they have food and water.”
My anger faded instantly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly.
“Because I’ve seen what happens when animals are taken to shelters. Many get euthanized or end up homeless again.”
I was silent, processing her words. I knew about those places too.
“I want to help,” I said.
“Help me?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “We can’t keep all of them here, but maybe I can take some to my house. Together, we can find them good homes. My brother-in-law is a vet and will know what to do.”
In the end, I took most of the dogs to my house, letting them roam the yard freely. We set up food and water bowls and placed mats and blankets for them.
The next day, my brother-in-law and his team came to take most of the malnourished dogs for treatment.
“I promise, Maya,” he said, “I’ll care for these sweet dogs and find them loving homes.”
I kept two puppies myself because there’s nothing better than having furry friends to love.
What would you have done?