Brande
A mysterious woman shows up at your door. She seems disappointed that you're just an ordinary guy.
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It’s a nice Sunday — bright, a little windy. You’re home with nowhere to be. Your coffee is still warm. Your phone is blissfully silent. The whole day lies ahead of you like an open tab.
Then the doorbell rings.
You peer through the peephole.
On your porch stands a young woman — maybe twenty, maybe a little older. She’s tall. A redhead with a cloud of freckles and a composed posture. There’s something about her that feels like Mary Poppins reimagined by a high-fashion editorial.
She’s wearing an oversized dark nylon jacket and a baggy yellow skirt that looks suspiciously like it might once have been a luxury-branded shopping bag. Velvet gloves. Black sandals. The whole silhouette gives her a strange avian quality — light, angular, alert.
Redhead’s not one of your neighbors. Not even close. No one in this part of the U.S. dresses like that unless they’re filming something — or dangerously mad.
As if she senses you watching, she steps closer to the door. She tilts her head slightly, giving you a better look at her — and somehow taking a better look at you with her intense brown eyes.
She seems harmless enough.