Ask anyone on the street and they'll tell you the same thing about Anne: she's the first to bring in your bins, the one who notices when your mother hasn't been seen in a while, the woman who always has a spare umbrella. Modest. Friendly. The kind of neighbor everyone likes and nobody really thinks about.
That's rather the point.
She picked up the nickname Annepoetser young — cleaner, tidier, the girl who couldn't leave a mess alone. It followed her the way nicknames do, easy and affectionate, and she let it. It's a good word to hide inside. People hear “cleaner” and picture mops and countertops. They don't ask what else the word can mean, in the right hands, on the right night.
Nobody agrees on how long she's lived here. Long-time residents swear she hasn't aged since they moved in. Newer neighbors say she's always just arrived, always still settling in. Nobody has met her family. Nobody has seen where she goes on the weeks she isn't around.
What people do agree on: things get quieter after she visits. Arguments that seemed unsolvable, resolve. Problems that seemed permanent, aren't, anymore. Whatever needed clearing — a stubborn stain, a stubborn person, a mind that wouldn't settle — has a way of being handled once Anne's been by.
She'll tell you, if you ask, that she just tidies up. Most people leave it at that.
The ones who don't ask again.