For ten years, he had seen only the occasional passerby and the realtor. The latter was a cranky, angry guy whom he wouldn't have wanted to converse with anyway. He dropped by every once in a while to complain about not having been able to sell the place yet or something his wife had done to aggravate him that morning. The man was always talking to himself, so much so that at first, Cole thought he could see him.
Nobody had lived in the house at the time of his death, nor had anyone moved in since then. He had full run of the place, but as time went on, he became increasingly lonely. He had accepted his fate, but he longed for contact with anybody else, even a brief conversation.
He had heard the car outside on the gravel driveway. He assumed it was the realtor again, or someone was lost. But when the car left and movement on the porch continued, he went to the kitchen and looked out. There, on the steps, sat a lady clutching two suitcases. She had her back to him and appeared to be gazing out over the yard. He tried to look away, but he couldn't. He felt something toward this stranger, even from the back. He watched her move about the porch and across the lawn as she apparently waited for someone. Then, the familiar realtor arrived. The lady on the porch handed the stocky, balding man a wad of cash after he had tossed her the keys from the driveway. A moment later, the realtor was gone, and the woman was unlocking the front door. Not sure what to do, he froze in place.