Every morning, exactly at half past six, she would go out into the yard with a yellow hose. No deviations, no breaks—always on schedule, like clockwork.

I could set my watch by her: she would turn on the water, slowly direct the stream onto a tiny patch of soil by the fence, and stand there like that for about twenty minutes.

That patch looked strange. Not a single blade of grass, not a sprout. Just dark, wet soil, as if scorched. The rest of the garden—tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries—remained dry.

At first, I thought she was growing some rare flowers or a special plant. But after a few days, I realized—nothing grew there at all.

Curiosity got the better of me.
— What are you watering all the time? — I asked one day.

The neighbor flinched, as if I had caught her doing something shameful. Her eyes darted away, and without looking up, she muttered:
— It’s… potatoes. A special kind.

Potatoes? Every single day, and with that much water? It sounded ridiculous. But I didn’t argue. I only remembered how her hands trembled.

From then on, she started avoiding me. And I—kept watching.

Every morning it repeated like a ritual. Only once did I notice her whispering something to herself while standing over the soil. That’s when a chill ran through me.

A week later, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the police. Told them everything exactly as it was. They were skeptical, of course, but they still came.

When two officers entered the yard, the neighbor turned pale. She tried to smile, muttering something about habit—just tending her garden. But her voice shook.

One of the officers bent down, stuck a shovel into the soil, and began to dig. The clay was soft, too wet. One more movement—and the shovel hit something hard.

When they cleared the dirt away, everyone stepped back.

From beneath the layer of earth, a human hand appeared.

Silence. Only the drops of water continued to fall from the edge of the hose, which she still hadn’t let go of.

Later it came out: her husband had gone missing a couple of months ago. Everyone assumed he had left. But he had been lying here all along—under that same little patch she watered every morning, as if hoping to “wash away” her guilt.

She had planted seeds on top, but the excess water caused everything to rot. And that’s exactly what gave her away.

Sometimes I think: if she had watered the whole garden, I might never have noticed.
Now, every time I turn on my own hose, it feels like I can hear drops falling onto that same patch of soil somewhere nearby…