For weeks, a little girl from across the street waved at me day and night. There was something unsettling in her gaze, and I felt as if she was trying to communicate something important. Finally, I decided to find out who she was, unaware of the heartbreaking truth that awaited me behind that door.
Each evening, I would see her—a tiny figure, no older than five, standing at her window, waving. Her intense gaze followed me as I passed by, almost as if she were reaching out. Who was she? What did she want?
One evening, I mentioned her to my wife, Sandy, while we relaxed in the living room. “That little girl is at the window again,” I said.
Sandy put down her book and joined me at the window. “You mean the one who waves at you?” she asked, intrigued.
I nodded, a strange sadness settling in. “Yes, but there’s something about her look. It feels like she’s asking for help.”
Sandy, always the practical one, placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Arnie, she’s probably just a lonely child wanting attention. Have you tried waving back?”
I hadn’t, and I wasn’t sure why. “No, it feels different. Like she’s reaching out for something deeper.”
Sandy sighed. “You might be overthinking it. She’s just a little girl waving.”
I wanted to believe that, but as I closed the curtains, a knot tightened in my stomach, as if I were ignoring something important.
That night, I dreamed about the girl. In my dream, she was crying, pleading with me not to leave her. I woke in a cold sweat, startled to see Sandy looking down at me with concern. “You were talking in your sleep again,” she said.
“I dreamed about her—the girl,” I replied, wiping sweat from my forehead. “She was crying, asking for help.”
Sandy looked worried. “Maybe we should talk to someone about this. You seem really troubled.”
But I knew what I needed to do. “No, I have to go over there. I can’t ignore this any longer.”
The next morning, I felt exhausted. My head throbbed from the restless night. Even the smell of Sandy’s pancakes couldn’t shake my unease. After breakfast, I glanced out the window, and there she was again—waving. It was as if she were waiting for me.
“I’m going over there to talk to her parents,” I declared, frustration bubbling up. “I can’t take this anymore.”
Sandy looked startled. “Arnie, are you sure? What if it’s nothing?”
“I have to find out,” I insisted, grabbing my coat.
Sandy hugged me from behind, her voice soft with worry. “Be careful, okay?”
“I will,” I assured her, though uncertainty loomed.
As I crossed the street, my heart raced. I pressed the buzzer for the apartment I had seen the girl in countless times. After a pause, a woman’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Arnold from across the street. I’d like to talk to you about your daughter,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
There was another pause, then the door buzzed open.
When the door opened, my heart nearly stopped. Standing there was someone I hadn’t seen in years. “Juliette?” I whispered, hardly believing my eyes.
She nodded, tears welling up. “Hello, Arnie. It’s been a long time.”
Before I could process what was happening, the little girl appeared at her side, her wide eyes looking up at me with hope. “Daddy?” she said softly.
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