When Claire agreed to help clean a reclusive woman’s neglected home, she expected clutter — not a haunting glimpse into a life paused by grief.
My phone buzzed as I packed my cleaning supplies. Another day, another home that needed a reset.
“Clean Slate Services, this is Claire,” I answered, balancing the phone on my shoulder while checking my microfiber cloths.
The voice on the other end was hesitant. “My name is Margaret. My daughter told me you help people with cleaning — and that you share stories online?”
I smiled. Our before-and-after cleaning videos had gained a surprising audience.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied. “How can I help?”
“It’s not for me,” Margaret said softly. “It’s my neighbor, Eleanor. She needs help, though she’d never ask. Her home… it’s not what it used to be.”
Her tone stopped me. I’d heard that kind of quiet urgency before — the sound of someone witnessing another person slowly fade into isolation.
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