Tom was seventeen.
He had bright, intelligent eyes and a clean-cut appearance—the kind that could’ve made him popular, if he had wanted to be. But Tom never tried.
At school, he walked the halls with his head down, never stopping to chat, never joining in the buzz of teen gossip. While his classmates filled their weekends with parties, football games, and budding romances, Tom had a different routine: go to school, go home. That was it.
He lived in an old but well-kept house in a quiet suburban neighborhood in Oregon, where white fences lined the streets and lawns were always neatly trimmed. He lived there with his grandmother. Their property was surrounded by flower beds and a wide vegetable garden, often tended to by the two of them.
Sometimes, neighbors would spot them pruning the roses or harvesting carrots, but they never stopped to chat. Tom rarely responded when greeted, only nodding politely or not at all. Most people learned to leave him be.
Well—most people.
The neighborhood kids, a group of noisy little boys who played baseball in the street every evening, never stopped trying. They’d shout across the road:
“Hey Tom! Wanna play?”
Tom never joined, but every once in a while, he’d offer a half-smile. Sometimes, he’d raise a hand in a tiny wave. For the kids, that was enough to keep trying.
Then one day, things began to change.
Mrs. Langford, Tom’s grandmother, stopped appearing in the garden. Days passed, then weeks. No one saw her watering the plants or picking tomatoes.
Tom still went to school, still walked with his head down, but now he stayed out late. Very late. Some nights, he didn’t come home at all—at least not when anyone could see.
The whispers began.
“I heard the old lady passed, and the boy buried her in the backyard,” muttered one neighbor.
“No, no,” another said, “she left. Couldn’t stand the boy anymore. Have you seen how strange he is?”
“My sister’s friend swears Tom cashed out her accounts and kept the house.”
The stories spread like wildfire. Parents began to keep their kids inside. They warned them:
“Stay away from that boy.”
“Don’t talk to him.”
“He’s not like other kids.”
Even the little baseball gang, who once adored Tom from afar, were forbidden from calling out to him anymore.
But none of it seemed to bother Tom.
Not until the shiny car arrived.
It was a silver BMW. Brand-new. Parked right in Tom’s driveway like a trophy.
“That settles it,” said a neighbor, peeking through her blinds. “He did steal from her.”
The rumors grew darker.
One summer afternoon, as the sun dipped and cast golden light over the streets, Tom was driving home when he saw a familiar group standing in the middle of the road.
It was the little baseball team—three boys with their gloves still in hand.
They flagged him down, standing boldly in front of the car.
Tom rolled down the window slowly.
“Tom,” said the oldest one, a boy named Carter, “our parents told us not to talk to you.”
Tom’s brow furrowed slightly. He didn’t respond.
“But we’ve been hearing stuff. About your grandma. About you. People think… bad things.”
Carter hesitated, then added,
“We didn’t believe it. But… can you just tell us the truth?”
There was silence.
Then Tom did something none of them expected.
He unlocked the car.
“Get in,” he said.
The boys climbed into the car, wide-eyed and quiet.
The engine hummed as Tom turned onto a side street, away from the neighborhood.
No one spoke. The boys sat stiffly, eyes darting between each other, unsure what they’d just agreed to.
Tom didn’t say much—until they reached the edge of town.
He pulled up to an old greenhouse, covered in ivy and nearly hidden by time. The glass was stained green and gray from years of dust and rain, but the door creaked open easily.
Tom looked at them.
“She’s in here.”
The boys followed, hesitantly. Inside, it was warm and filled with the earthy scent of soil and flowers. In the back corner sat a rocking chair.
And there, surrounded by potted violets and tomato plants… sat Mrs. Langford.
Alive.
Smiling softly. A bit thinner, older, but definitely alive.
“Tommy,” she said gently, “you brought guests.”
Carter’s jaw dropped.
“But… everyone thought…”
Tom’s voice was calm.
“She had a stroke. I kept it quiet. People talk too much. I didn’t want her harassed or gawked at while she recovered.”
He gestured toward the BMW.
“That car? It’s hers. Bought it years ago with money from her gardening books. I just got it tuned up and brought it home. But nobody bothered to ask.”
The boys stood frozen.
Tom turned to them, eyes steady.
“You wanted the truth. There it is.”
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