Every morning, precisely at half past six, she would come out into the yard with a yellow hose. No interruptions, no rest—always on time, as if on schedule.
I could tell the time by her: she’d turn on the water, slowly direct the stream onto a tiny patch of ground by the fence, and stand there for twenty minutes.
This plot looked strange. Not a blade of grass, not a sprout. Just wet, dark earth, as if scorched. The rest of the garden—the tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries—remained dry.
At first, I thought she had some rare flowers or a special plant there. But after a few days, I realized—nothing at all was growing there.
Curiosity got the better of me.
“Why are you always watering it?” I asked one day.
The neighbor wins, as if I’d caught her doing something shameful. Her eyes darted to the side, and without looking up, she muttered,
“These are potatoes… a special kind.”
Potatoes? Every day, and so much water too? It sounded ridiculous. But I didn’t argue. I just remembered how her hands shook.
From then on, she avoided me. And I watched.
Every morning, it was the same, like a ritual. Only once did I notice her whispering something under her breath, standing above the ground. Then my insides went cold.
A week later, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the police. I told them everything. They were skeptical, of course, but they came anyway.
When two police officers entered the yard, the neighbor turned pale. She tried to smile and muttered something about habit—she was just tending the garden beds. But her voice trembled.
One of the officers bent down, stuck a shovel into the ground, and began digging. The clay was soft, too wet. Another movement, and the shovel struck something hard.
When they pulled back the earth, everyone recoiled.
A human hand emerged from beneath the layer of soil.
Silence. Only drops of water continued to fall from the edge of the hose, which she still hadn’t let go of.
It later emerged that her husband had disappeared a couple of months ago. Everyone thought he’d left. But he’d been lying there all this time—under that very patch of grass she’d watered every morning, as if hoping to “wash away” her guilt.
She planted seeds on top, but the excess water caused everything to rot. And that’s what gave her away.
Sometimes I think: if she watered the whole garden, I probably would never have noticed.
But now, every time I turn on the water in my house, I seem to hear dripping somewhere nearby onto that very same soil…
