Every weekday at 4 p.m., Caroline’s neighbors, Mike and Jill, performed a peculiar ritual that had piqued her curiosity for a decade. One day, she decided to investigate, but what she discovered through the open window was far from what she had imagined.
Ten years. That’s how long I’ve been living in this house and working from home. I’m Caroline, and I work as a web developer from the comfort of my house.
My remote job gives me the freedom to work from anywhere (literally, anywhere!), but I choose to stay at home in my comfy pajamas.
My days are marked by the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of my keyboard and the comforting hum of the fridge. My desk, positioned next to a large window, offers a prime view of the neighborhood.
Taking a break during work means making myself a cup of coffee and looking out of the window.
A cast of characters who play out their own little dramas keeps me entertained during those breaks, oblivious to my silent observations.
But none hold more intrigue than my next-door neighbors, Mike and Jill.
Every weekday, at precisely 4 p.m., a silver sedan would glide into their driveway. Out would step Mike, a tall, unassuming man with a briefcase clutched tightly to his chest. He’d disappear into the house for a quick fifteen minutes, then emerge again, the car pulling away just as quickly as it arrived.
On days Jill went to work, they’d come home together and close the curtains. On weekends, they’d just pull the curtains shut at the exact time. 4 p.m.
Their charming Victorian house, with its perpetually well-kept lawn, remained shrouded in an air of secrecy during those fifteen minutes.
Their routine was so precise and unchanging that it just became a part of my workdays.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t call myself a nosy person. But ten years of witnessing this daily ritual chipped away at my restraint.
The human mind craves answers, and the unanswered question of “what do they do for those fifteen minutes?” gnawed at me.
One particularly slow Wednesday afternoon, the itch of curiosity became unbearable. I was hunched over my laptop, editing a website when the familiar rumble of the car engine reached my ears.
My chair creaked as I rose, drawn to the window like a moth to a flame. Through the glass, I watched Mike and Jill step out of their silver sedan.
They shared a quick kiss before heading inside.
I instantly looked at the wall clock. It was 4 p.m.
Everything was normal except one thing. Instead of the usual blackout routine where all curtains were drawn, only one remained open.
It was like an unspoken invitation, calling me to see what was happening inside their house.
You have only 15 minutes, I thought as I rushed towards my front door.
Once I judged no one was looking at me, I made a beeline for the open window.
Upon reaching there, I looked around once again and was relieved to know none of the neighbors were watching me.
At that point, my common sense screamed at me to retreat, but the years of built-up curiosity roared louder. Stretching on my tiptoes, I strained to see over the windowsill.
Their living room was just like any other. In the center, Mike stood with a professional camera in his hands.
His back was towards me, but Jill stood facing him, a soft smile playing on her lips.
Just as I stretched on my tiptoes for a better view, a flicker of movement at the edge of the room caught my eye.
That was when I realized Mike was also looking directly at me. Our eyes met, and I simply fell as his wife shouted, “Someone’s there! Someone’s peeking inside!”
No, no, no! I thought. This can’t be happening!
I had to run back to my house before Mike or Jill came outside.
I wasn’t sure if they had recognized me. All I knew was that they had seen the upper part of my face before I fell to the ground.
Before I could even process the situation, I scrambled towards my house and locked the door behind me. It felt like my heart would come out of my chest.
What was I even thinking? Why did I decide to peek into their house? Had I offended them?
I felt so embarrassed at that point and I had no idea what Jill and Mike would do next. Would they call the police on me and accuse me of stalking? I was terrified.
When I replayed the incident in my head, I realized Mike had clicked a photo of me. Yes, that’s right.
They knew exactly which woman from the neighborhood was peeking inside their living room at 4 p.m.
Let me recall what happened. Mike was taking a portrait of Jill with his professional camera, but when he saw me, he took a photo of me instead.
Minutes ticked by, each one an eternity, but no one knocked on my door that day. Does the story end here? No.
The next day, I was preparing breakfast when a tentative knock on my door shattered the silence. My stomach churned. I knew it was either Mike or Jill.
With a shaky breath, I inched towards the door and peeked through the peephole. It was Mike.
Calm down, calm down, I told myself before opening the door.
“Hi, Mike! What’s up?” I greeted him, pretending I wasn’t the one peeking into their house yesterday.
“Hey, Caroline,” he smiled.
He had an envelope in his hands, but I wasn’t sure what was inside it until he slid out a photograph. My photograph.
“Care to explain?” he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.
The photo was more like a cruel testament to my clumsiness.
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It showed me mid-fall with a look of pure horror on my face and my legs flailing in the air. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life immortalized in a single frame.
As shame burned in my cheeks, I could only let out a defeated sigh. At that point, confessing my prying ways seemed like the only option.
“Look,” I began. “I’ve seen you come home every day for years. I just… couldn’t help but be curious.”
“I wanted to know what was this fifteen-minute ritual. Nothing else. Please don’t get me wrong.”
“Fifteen-minute ritual?” Mike”s smile softened into a chuckle.
“Yes, I mean…” I was confused. Why was he so happy despite knowing I was peeking inside his house?
“I know what you mean, Caroline,” Mike said. “Come with me, I’ll show you something. Jill’s waiting for you at home.”
“Are you sure you want me to come with you?” I asked.
“Yes, Caroline,” he smiled. “Let’s go.”
I quickly turned off the toaster and grabbed my keys before heading outside. Mike led me into his house, and for the first time, I stepped into the heart of their charming home.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating a collection of family photos and cozy furniture that spoke of laughter and love.
As he settled on the couch beside Jill, a gentle warmth filled his voice as he began to share their story.
“Jill and I have been together since we were 15,” he explained. “When we started dating, I made a silly promise. I told her I’d take her picture every single day, same pose, same time, no matter what. It was just a little way of showing her how much she meant to me.”
As I tried to process the heartwarming story, he reached for a thick leather-bound album on the coffee table.
He opened the album and flipped through the pages, showing me the photos he had captured.
Each picture, perfectly dated on the corner, was a testament to their enduring love story. Some showed a young, vibrant Jill, her smile contagious and eyes sparkling.
Others documented milestones like graduations, vacations, their wedding day, a radiant Jill cradling a newborn baby.
The photos progressed, capturing the subtle changes that time brought. There were a few streaks of silver adding wisdom to Jill’s smile, and some wrinkles around their eyes etching a lifetime of laughter. Yet, the love radiating from their eyes remained constant.
“That’s… actually really sweet,” I admitted, surprised by the emotions welling up inside me.
Mike grinned. “It is, isn’t it? So, no more peeping through windows, okay? Next time, curiosity gets the better of you, just knock on the door,” he winked. “We might even have some cookies to bribe you with in exchange for keeping our secret.”
From that day on, a silent understanding blossomed between us. I never peeked through the window again, but the image of their daily ritual stayed with me. It became a heartwarming reminder that sometimes, the most extraordinary love stories bloom in the simplest of gestures.
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