Neighbors
Roger sat at his desk under the cool, blue glow of his computer screen, his fingers hovering over the mouse as he reviewed two messages that stood out among several replies. He had spent the last hour rewriting an email that eventually read simply: "Hello. I liked your ad. Tell me more about yourself." It was far from poetic, but it was safe—a habit refined over decades of caution. At fifty-eight, having been married once and divorced long enough not to matter, he now lived alone in a house that was too big for one, drove a practical car, and dressed in a manner that helped him blend into the background. Yet despite his chosen solitude, the silence of his home had recently begun to echo with an unspoken question. That persistent emptiness had led him to Silverdaddies, where he cautiously posted a vague profile—enough to confirm his existence, but not enough to reveal his identity. By morning, two replies had come through. The first was from Karl, a retired teacher who describ...