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That evening, something felt different.
Sarah was called downstairs by her mother—a voice she hadn't heard kindly in what felt like years. "Come eat dinner with us," her mom said softly.
At the dinner table, they were all sitting together for the first time in a long while. Plates clinked gently, and the air felt warmer than usual. Her mother cleared her throat and looked up, her eyes a little wet.
"We're sorry, Sarah," she said. "We haven't always paid you attention. We thought we were doing the right thing… but we weren't. We were selfish."
Her father nodded beside her. "We didn't mean to shut you out," he added. "We just… forgot to see you."
Tears welled in Sarah's eyes—not the painful kind this time. She leaned in and hugged them both. "As long as every day can be like this," she whispered, "I'm okay with anything."
They held each other close. A quiet little family moment. No yelling, no ignoring. Just warmth.
That night, Sarah went upstairs and turned on the lights. And for the first time in forever… she didn't draw him.
She didn't think about Kim. She didn't think about Rose and Ella. She didn't even think about Valentine's Day. Her hand moved differently across her sketchpad that night—she drew her parents. Smiling. Arms around her. And she smiled too.
But something still felt… off.
A chill crept over her as if someone was watching her. Two eyes. Heavy. Silent. Staring.
Her feet moved on their own, leading her to the window.
There it stood—tall, silent, unmoving.
The scarecrow.
Its eyes were locked on her like it had been waiting. Watching. Feeding on her joy.
She stared at it for what seemed like hours, a cold breath stuck in her throat. Then finally, she pulled away, shook her head. It's just the new place, she told herself. I'm just creeped out.
But even as she turned off the lights and slipped into bed, she could still feel it. The eyes. Still staring.
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The next morning, she was woken by the sound of metal hitting metal—sharp and loud. She ran downstairs to find her dad fixing a window, surrounded by real estate agents who were helping with the final touches.
Her mom smiled and greeted her, "Oh, you're awake, honey." She handed Sarah a small paper bag. "Here—cookies. Go give them to the neighbors, let them know we're friendly."
Sarah beamed, clutched the bag, and stepped outside into the sunlight, heart full of new hope.
She handed cookies to every neighbor she met. All smiled and welcomed her… except for one.
There was one house—one she didn't notice before. It seemed like it didn't want to be noticed. She walked to the door anyway, because kindness was kindness. She knocked gently.
After a long pause, the door creaked open. A wrinkled woman, eyes pale and distant, looked down at her.
"We're the new neighbors," Sarah said sweetly, offering a cookie.
The woman took the cookie but didn't smile. Her voice was low, almost whispering. "Why this house?" she asked. "Why did you and your parents pick this house… out of all the houses?"
Sarah blinked. "I—I don't know."
The old woman gave a tight shrug and muttered, "Never mind."
Then the door shut slowly.
Sarah stood there for a long moment, the bag empty in her hands, a cold shiver in her spine, and the wind curling softly behind her like a warning.
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