The rental agent had mentioned the trees. "Mature specimens," she'd said, tapping her pen against the contract. I signed below the watermark, a small circle that reminded me of something I couldn't place.
The first week, I kept careful records. Sunrise at 6:47. The path to the door: gravel, mostly gray. I photographed it on Tuesday to submit with my insurance forms. When I checked the photo that evening, the colors had shifted in the frame, but screens do that. Calibration issues.
My mother called on Thursday. "Have you made any friends?"
I'd seen the neighbor once, standing very still among the bare branches. When I waved, she waved back with the exact same gesture, same timing. A mirror's delay. I told my mother yes, I was adjusting well.
The ground started moving on a Sunday, though I can't say when I first noticed. You don't notice water until you're already wet. I was bringing in groceries, eggs, bread, the usual things, and my foot landed on a streak of blue where the path should have been solid. It held my weight. Everything held.
Last night I found receipts in my coat pocket from a hardware store I don't remember visiting. Paintbrushes. Six cans of primer. But the house hasn't been painted. The walls are the same yellow they've always been, which is strange because the listing photos showed them white. I checked this morning. Still white in the photos. Yellow when I look up.
The orbs appeared gradually, or perhaps I only began seeing them gradually. One hovers outside my bedroom window at the same height every evening. Sometimes I think it blinks.
I've stopped photographing the path. The camera doesn't show what I need it to show.
