In a neighborhood where people waved politely but rarely spoke, life had always been comfortably quiet. I lived at the end of a cul-de-sac with my cat, Molly, and a habit of ordering too many things online.
I loved the small rituals of coming home, unlocking the door, Molly curling around my legs, and unboxing something new. A shampoo I wanted to try. A book I’d been waiting on. Socks, candles, vitamins, and once, even a pair of sweaters I’d never worn.
These were little things that made life feel manageable.
But that routine broke when the packages started disappearing.
It began slowly. A missing order here, a delayed delivery there. At first, I didn’t even think twice. Things got misplaced, sure. Delivery drivers were human and sometimes systems glitched. I chalked it up to bad luck, or maybe porch pirates making the rounds.
Still, I started checking my porch like a nervous tic, sitting upright every time I turned onto the street, hoping to see that familiar cardboard box waiting by the welcome mat.
When nothing showed up, I’d call customer service and plead like someone had lost a part of me.
“Are you sure it was delivered?”
“Can I see proof of delivery?”
“Please repeat the address given?”
I heard my voice getting tighter each time, more desperate over what was, in the grand scheme of things, small. Cat food. Shampoo. A six-pack of socks.
But then, it wasn’t small anymore. My brand-new Kindle disappeared, and that was the last straw. That one stung.
I dove into my Ring cam footage with all the obsession of someone looking for a ghost. But it gave me nothing. Just wind, shadows, an occasional raccoon. Whoever was taking the packages was either lucky or clever.
Or both.
And then something clicked.
A woman had moved into the house across the street a couple of weeks ago, right around when the missing deliveries started. She was in her early 20s, stylish even in joggers, with hair always pulled into a sleek braid.
I learned her name was Tessa.
We hadn’t officially met. I baked cookies as a welcome gesture, chocolate chip, still warm on the plate. I knocked, waited, knocked again.
No answer.
I left the plate on the little bench she had. She never brought it back.
Since then, I’d noticed her watching me. Not rudely. Not warmly, either. Just… watching. Curious. Detached.
And maybe, just maybe, guilty.
The timing gnawed at me. The silence. The glances. And the fact that she never seemed to receive deliveries herself. I’d never seen any packages nor any mail delivered to her house.
Maybe I was being paranoid and looking for someone to blame, that logic wasn’t lost on me. But I couldn’t shake the feeling.
So one night, I decided to stay up and watch.
I made ramen for dinner, impatiently waiting for the time to pass. Eventually, it was late enough. I left the lights off, tucked myself behind the sheer curtain near the front door, and waited.
The living room was dark. My heart thudded like a steady drum, one beat louder than the next. Molly had curled up on the windowsill beside me, her tail flicking in quiet rhythm.
At exactly 1:47 a.m., she appeared.
Tessa.
She had her hood up and slippers on. She moved across the street like she was walking through a dream… or a routine. She didn’t look around. She didn’t even hesitate for a second.
She walked right up to my porch, bent down, picked up my newest delivery like it was something she’d been meaning to retrieve, and walked away.
Calm. Silent. Certain. It blew my mind.
I didn’t even breathe until I saw her front door click shut behind her.
For a few seconds, I just sat there, blinking, stunned by the simplicity of it. She hadn’t run or skulked. She hadn’t even looked over her shoulder. And that… that was what got me.
I could’ve called the police right then. I could have yelled her name across the street and demanded an explanation, causing a scene. But something in me craved something more direct.
Something more… poetic.
Instead, I reached for my laptop and typed “DIY glitter bomb” into YouTube.
By the next evening, I had my trap set.
I emptied out an Amazon box and rigged it with a spring-loaded dye pack and a pouch of the smelliest, stickiest blue pigment I could find at the craft store. It was juvenile, yes, but it was also deeply satisfying.
I imagined the cloud bursting onto her clothes, her shock, and her shame. I imagined the lesson soaking in before the pigment did.
I left it on the porch just before midnight, centered neatly under the motion light.
At 1:45 a.m., I took my seat with a cup of tea. I needed something to soothe my nerves.
Sure enough, Tessa came. She wore the same hoodie, the same slippers, and the same casual stride. I couldn’t understand what was going on with her.
How could someone have so much confidence? How could she steal someone else’s belongings with such ease?
She picked it up and walked away.
I barely slept that night, giddy with anticipation. But when I peeked out of the window the next morning, she was unlocking her car, humming. There was absolutely no blue on her, meaning no traces of the dye I’d packed. Maybe the rig didn’t go off. Maybe it got knocked, or didn’t trigger right.
I hadn’t tested it first, rookie mistake.
I felt heat rise in my chest.
I stormed outside, adrenaline buzzing, and caught her just as she was sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Hey,” I said.
“Uh, hey?” she turned, looking startled but somewhat composed.
“Can we talk? I’m Jules.”
“Sure, what’s up?” she blinked, a frown forming onto her face.
“You didn’t happen to find any packages last night, did you?”
“No, why would I?” she asked.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the police right there in front of her. She watched me, her mouth slightly open, her expression unreadable. Not once did she raise her voice or plead.
She just seemed nonchalant… and confused?
When the officers arrived, I explained everything. The missing deliveries, the Ring cam footage I hadn’t saved in time. The bait box.
They listened, nodded, and then one of them turned to Tessa and asked if they could take a look inside her home.
She didn’t flinch.
“I have nothing to hide,” she said quietly.
We followed them inside.
Tessa’s home was spotless. Everything had a place. Her living room was minimalist, a few books stacked on the coffee table, a cream-colored throw folded over the arm of the couch.
A kettle sat on the stove, the kind that whistled when it boiled. There were plants, too, hanging from hooks near the window, their green leaves spilling down like waterfall vines.
Nothing about the space said chaos. Nothing said stolen.
But when one of the officers asked if they could check the basement, I saw something flicker across her face.
“I… don’t really go down there,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t defiance. It was fear. Or maybe shame.
One officer led the way down. The other stayed upstairs with us. I could hear each creak of the wooden steps echo like a metronome in a too-quiet room. Then a pause.
A click. The basement light buzzed on.
“You should come and take a look at this, ma’am,” the officer’s voice called up, low and careful.
I walked down slowly. The air was cooler, like the room hadn’t been used in weeks.
On a shelf along the far wall, lined up like someone had deliberately catalogued them, were eight unopened packages.
All mine.
I stepped forward and my breath caught in my throat. My shampoo, socks, the Kindle. Even the bait box! All untouched. Just sitting there like time forgot them.
Tessa’s footsteps followed mine. When she saw them, her face drained of color.
“I don’t… I don’t remember taking these,” she whispered.
One of the officers asked her gently if she was okay. She didn’t answer. Tessa just sank down onto the bottom step and started to cry.
“I thought I was done with this,” she said, her hands shaking in her lap. “The doctor told me that a change of scenery would help. That’s why I moved…”
“Done with what, Tessa?” I asked, my voice smaller than I’d expected it to be.
“Sleepwalking,” she said. “I haven’t done it for a while now. But I think that, despite what my doctor said, the stress of moving and being alone… I think it triggered something.”
Her voice cracked as she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“I never opened anything! I didn’t even know they were here. I just… I don’t know why I took them. It’s like my brain picked them up and filed them away without telling me.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just stood in my neighbor’s basement, the quiet pressing in on all sides. I was still angry, but it was shifting. That anger was melting into something I couldn’t quite name yet.
Confusion? Sadness? Both.
The officers offered to document everything but I shook my head.
“No, thank you,” I said. “This is enough. I know where my packages are… and I can take it from here. No legal action necessary.”
They gave Tessa a warning and asked her to follow up with a doctor. And then they left.
That night, I went home. I paused all my deliveries for a while. And I sat on the couch with Molly curled up on my chest. I wondered how Tessa would make peace with herself.
How do you make peace with a side of your brain that you can’t control? How do you make peace when the story doesn’t have a villain? Just a deep human flaw.
She wasn’t a thief. Tessa was sick…
And weirdly, I didn’t feel rage anymore. Just a strange sort of ache.
The next week, Tessa came over with a warm, homemade apple pie. It was still warm and smelled delicious.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, eyes wet.
I believed her.
We sat on the porch steps and talked for an hour. It wasn’t about small talk. There was no pretending. It was just real and honest conversation about stress, loneliness, about the weight of trying to seem fine when you’re unraveling inside.
She told me about her teenage years, how the sleepwalking started after her parents divorced, how it faded for a while, and how she thought it was behind her.
Until now.
“I’ve started therapy again,” she said. “We’re trying to work out what’s the trigger… I need to know if it’s a sense of loneliness. And I got one of those alarms that chirps when the door opens. It startles me awake.”
“That’s really good progress, Tess,” I said.
“I told my mom everything last week. She cried.”
I watched her carefully as she said it, like the words might break. But she didn’t. She was trying. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” I told her. “I’m just glad you told me.”
Now, every Sunday night, she comes over with popcorn and we watch true crime documentaries like we’ve done it for years. She scratches Molly’s chin until she purrs and reminds me to feed her when I forget the time. Sometimes she leaves sunflowers on my doorstep in a mason jar, no note.
Just yellow petals and kindness.
The packages don’t disappear anymore.
But even if they did, I think I’d know where to look. And I don’t think I’d be mad. There’s something strange and beautiful about how things returned. About how a confrontation turned into connection.
Sometimes, healing doesn’t come from calling someone out or making them pay. Sometimes it just walks across the street, holding a pie and asking if it can stay awhile.
And you let it. Because forgiveness is quieter than fury… but it’s the kind of quiet I’ve come to trust.
