One afternoon, Emily Johnson stood at her front door, a stack of mail in one hand and a carefully practiced smile on her face as she greeted her neighbor, Martha.

“Emily, your garden is just lovely,” Martha praised, her eyes crinkling. “I’m always impressed by how you keep everything so pristine.”

Emily’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Thank you, Martha. My husband, Michael, is a very meticulous man.” She adjusted the sleeve of her long-sleeved blouse, a reflexive habit, even in the humid Ohio air. Emily was a woman who radiated a gentle, almost apologetic modesty. Her shoulder-length brown hair was always neat, her clothing plain but clean. And she always, always, wore long sleeves.