The people in the street were convinced that the woman at number nine was odd.
Not odd in a bad way particularly, just strange in her ways. She was generally regarded as a weirdo. It may have all started a couple of years back when her husband died or maybe that’s when neighbours began whispering about her weird habits. She seemed to be forever throwing things out. Sometimes she’d put bits of furniture out on her front verge, items that often looked quite reasonable. She would sometimes do this when there wasn’t a bulk collection scheduled, and if none of it moved she would stake a notice in front of it, saying ‘Free’. Every bin night, hers was crammed full, the lid bulging open with clothes, mainly men’s. The rumour was that she was selling a lot of stuff off through internet sites.
People started to wonder how she could live in there, with a house that must be all but empty. The only time anybody had tried to enquire about her wellbeing was when the woman at number sixteen took it upon herself to call in and see if everything was all right. She was thanked for asking but didn’t get passed the front door.
When news of this got around, the general feeling in the street was that she’d gone a bit loopy. She wasn’t that old, but it was reckoned that dementia was setting in and some relative that none of them knew about would turn up one day and arrange for her to go into a care home. In fact, this looked as though that might be the case when the ‘For Sale’ sign went up.
Nobody actually saw her leave. It was suggested that it happened during the night.
It was the woman at number sixteen who received the postcard.
It was franked, Palm Beach, Florida.