They called her Madame Zada, a name that sounded like a riddle no one cared to solve. Her house sat at the dead end of our street, its paint peeling, shutters crooked, and lawn overrun with stubborn weeds. Neighbors whispered about her—once rich, now ruined; touched by madness; maybe cursed. Most dismissed her as a relic of another life.
To me, she was simply the quiet figure on the porch, wrapped in a thin blanket, staring at a world that seemed to have forgotten her.
The first time I brought food, my hands shook. It wasn’t anything fancy—just leftover lentil soup and a few pieces of flatbread. She opened her door only an inch, eyes sharp but unreadable, and took the container as though I’d offered her treasure. One short nod, then the door closed.
That’s how it began. The next day I brought chickpeas and rice. Later, a slice of pie. On snowy evenings, a thermos of hot tea. She rarely spoke, but once she murmured, “You’re not like the others.” It was the longest conversation we had for months.
I kept going, through seasons and storms, through my own heartbreaks. When my mother died, when my boyfriend left, when I dragged myself home from double shifts at the diner, I still carried food to her porch. Four years passed like this.
No one else ever came. People noticed, though.
“Why bother?” asked Mr. Yamada, the neighbor who always had an opinion. “She doesn’t even say thank you.”
“She doesn’t have to,” I replied, and kept walking.
Then, one morning, flashing lights pierced the street. An ambulance waited in front of her house. EMTs carried her body out on a stretcher. “Natural causes,” they said. Just like that, Madame Zada was gone.
Back in my kitchen, my phone rang—an unknown number. I ignored it. It rang again. And again.
“Is this Malina Khoury?” a measured voice asked when I finally answered. “This is Vincent Serra, attorney for the estate of Ms. Zada Delacroix. You are listed as her sole beneficiary.”
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