Milo walked home from school when the late sun stretched long orange stripes across the pavement. Something red caught his eye — tangled in the brambles by the fence at the edge of the old house's yard.
His sneakers scraped backward. A floorboard groaned somewhere upstairs. The balloon bobbed against the branches, red against the gray sky, like it was waving at him. He turned toward home.
The next day Milo walked fast with his head down, but the balloon was still there and still red. He took one step toward the yard, then another, until his shoe brushed the brambles.
A window upstairs rattled. Milo froze, one hand on the fence, and waited. The rattling stopped. A curtain twitched.
The day after that, Milo held his breath and counted to ten. He reached with both hands. His fingers closed around the string — and the balloon came free.
The front door slammed open. An old woman stood on the porch, her hair like a white cloud. She looked at the balloon, then at Milo's face. 'Oh!' she said, and disappeared back inside.
Milo backed away, the balloon slipping from his grip. Then the door opened again. The old woman came down the steps, holding the balloon string. 'You dropped this,' she said.
Milo looked at her — really looked. Her other hand was empty, like she'd been standing on the porch just waiting. 'Thank you,' he said, and took the string. The woman's mouth curled up, and she squeezed his fingers.
The next evening Milo walked home with the red balloon bobbing just above his head. The old woman waved from her porch. Milo waved back, his fingers loose around the string.
The house didn't look so old anymore. Just a house. With a garden, and a porch, and a woman who waved.