I finished her lawn that day.
Went home.
Collapsed into bed thinking that, somehow, the world felt a little less heavy.
I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see her alive.
The next morning, the sirens woke me.
Lights flashing. Neighbors gathering. That sharp, electric feeling that something had gone wrong.
When the sheriff knocked on my door, I already knew.
Mrs. Higgins had passed.
Just like that.
Gone.
I sat there, numb, barely hearing the words—until he said something that didn’t make sense.
“She left something in your mailbox.”
My heart stuttered.
“What?”
We walked outside together. The street felt too loud, too alive for something so final.
My hands shook as I opened the mailbox.
Inside were two envelopes.
One with my name.
The other stamped in bold red letters.
PAID IN FULL.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
I think I made a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—as the world tilted around me.
The sheriff caught my arm.
“Easy,” he said gently.
