After inheriting a broken-down farm from the father I never knew, I moved in hoping for peace, maybe even a fresh start. I’d grown up in foster care—surrounded by kind people, sure, but always with a hole where my biological family should’ve been. Life had been a patchwork of odd jobs, tough breaks, and unanswered questions. Then one day, a lawyer called: my birth father had passed and left me a crumbling old farm in the middle of nowhere. The place was falling apart, but it was mine. For the first time, I felt a flicker of belonging. But then,
things got weird. My neighbor, a quiet woman named Linda, started copying me. First it was the yellow fence I painted—suddenly, she had the same one. Then it was the new mailbox I installed. Then my yoga routine on the porch. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence. Then, I started to feel creeped out. Why was she mimicking everything I did? I couldn’t take it anymore. One afternoon, I marched over to her porch, ready to ask what her deal was. Instead of acting defensive or confused,