One quiet Monday afternoon, I was home preparing to take a bath when a knock interrupted me. I opened the door to see a frail, older woman with a serious expression, dressed in a blue top and wrapped skirt. She looked upset and, though I didn’t recognize her, she asked brusquely, "Call Auntie for me." Her vagueness left me confused, so I asked, “Who exactly are you looking for?” She snapped back, “Call the one in the room with you.” I was alone, so I tried explaining, but she grew frustrated, insisting she had “important information.”

“Step outside so I can tell you,” she demanded. I was about to step out when I suddenly had an uneasy feeling about it, something felt off, so I stayed behind the screen door. "Can you please tell me from where you are I can hear you." After a moment, she sighed.

“Fine, just go back inside.” her impatience and strange behavior startled me but I closed my door all the same. That evening, when my mom returned, I described the incident. She thought the woman might have been looking for Auntie Maggie, our downstairs neighbor. It was when she mentioned her that I even remembered our neighbor.

"What did she look like" she asked. I described her appearance—as short, dark-skinned, wearing a familiar blue Presbyterian Lacoste. My mom went pale. “That sounds like Auntie Maggie’s mother.” I gasped,

"But doesn't she have her daughter's number? I hope she called her" 

 “But she passed away years ago.” my mother added.

The thought chilled me. Two days later, on Wednesday morning, another knock came. A neighbor, tearful, shared heartbreaking news: “Morris is dead.” Morris, Auntie Maggie's son, and a dear friend of mine, from further conversations I learned he had fallen ill the same Monday night after the strange woman’s visit. I couldn’t shake the feeling of regret—had the old woman been trying to warn me? Had I stepped outside, could I have somehow saved him?