The Neighborhood at Her Feet

Nari checked her phone after every lap of the park. Three laps took about thirty minutes. On an evening after rain, she entered through the usual gate and walked in the usual direction. Water was beginning to seep through the sides of her shoes.

On her second lap, she noticed a woman in an orange raincoat crouching beside the path. When Nari came around again, the woman was still there, her head lowered and a small handbag wedged between her knees.

“Have you lost something?” Nari stopped. The woman pointed at a puddle. “No. I’m trying to photograph that roof.” Nari looked up between the trees. She could not immediately tell which roof the woman meant.

The woman shifted aside. Nari crouched too. A red roof hung upside down in the water, along with black wires and two square windows. Looking up again, she found the same roof between the trees near the park entrance.

As Nari leaned forward, her face appeared over the roof. The woman laughed. “The house disappears if you go that way.” Nari moved her knees back. Her face slid toward the edge of the puddle, and the windows returned.

“Do you always take pictures here?” “No. This spot looks good today.” On the woman’s phone, the roof filled the screen. Nari felt for her own phone in her pocket.

A bicycle bell rang. They stood and cleared the path. The woman lifted her handbag; Nari brushed her knees. After the bicycle passed, they remained standing, waiting for the water to settle.

A leaf blew down onto the puddle. The edge of the roof broke into small, shaking pieces. Nari thought she could scoop the leaf away. She reached out, saw the woman’s phone, and withdrew her hand.

“Is it all right with that in there?” The woman tilted her screen. “As long as it doesn’t cover the windows.” The leaf drifted aside. Nari could not remember watching a fallen leaf for so long.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Thirty minutes were up. She dismissed the alert and opened her camera. From standing height, she captured a lamppost and the toes of her shoes. She could not find the roof.

The woman crouched again. Nari joined her and lowered her phone beneath her knees. A red triangle appeared in one corner of the screen. She moved the phone slightly, and it vanished. Their shoulders bumped.

“I’ll move over.” The woman shifted, standing her handbag upright. The picture darkened. Nari reached toward the shadow with an empty hand, then stopped. “Could the bag go behind us?” The woman moved it beside her foot.

The roof and both windows came into view. Nari watched without pressing the button. One window was open, the other closed. A yellow towel hung between them.

Then a child ran off the path and jumped into the puddle. Water splashed over Nari’s shoes. A man caught up and grabbed the child’s arm. “I’m sorry. You were taking pictures.” The child inspected a wet sole.

The woman wiped her damp phone on her sleeve. Nari stood and shook her shoes. Sky and muddy water swirled together. The child turned and half raised a hand. Nari waved back. The man lifted the child before another foot could enter the puddle.

The woman checked the time and shouldered her bag. “I’d better go.” Nari said she had not got her picture yet. The woman looked back toward the entrance. “There’ll be another puddle when it rains. The house isn’t going anywhere.”

The woman left through the park gate. Nari stayed. The roof was blurred, and the yellow towel had vanished. She put her phone away and bent to retie a wet shoelace.

As she started to rise, she saw a thin yellow line near the edge of the water. She stopped. The towel had returned between the windows and roof. It looked narrower now, but she could even see its two hanging corners.

Nari stepped back and bent her knees. This time, she did not try to center the roof. Her shoe remained at the bottom of the screen, and the yellow towel stretched across the top. She took one picture.

In the photo, the wet lace looked larger than the towel. Nari spread two fingers on the screen, then shrank the image again. The leaf was there too, clear of the windows. She kept the picture and turned off her phone.

On her way home, Nari took a turn through the lane outside the park. She could see the red roof but could not tell which front gate belonged to that house. In her still-damp shoes, she turned the corner carefully.

After dinner, she sent the picture to a friend. Where is that? came the reply. Nari typed the park’s name, then deleted it and described the entrance and path instead. Her friend said she passed that way all the time.

The next evening, they walked there together. The puddle had dried, leaving a dark outline. Her friend looked between the picture and the ground, then bent forward. Nari stood beside her for a moment before crouching too.

A dry leaf brushed her fingers. There was only bare ground in front of them. Her friend laughed, stood, and offered a hand. Nari took it. They brushed the dust from their knees and walked slowly toward the next corner.