Sometimes they’d even compliment it while walking their dogs. When Helen was alive, they’d worked on it together. She chose the colors, he handled the soil. Her touch still lingered in the garden gnomes by the stepping stones and the white-painted birdhouse shaped like a church.
Clarence never moved those things. They were part of the rhythm now. He wasn’t a recluse, just private. He liked the slow pace of retired life—meals made from scratch, early bedtimes, and quiet mornings.
The world spun fast these days, but Clarence had found a way to step outside of it. His home was a pocket of calm. His yard, a sanctuary. But things had begun to change lately. First, it was the path behind his property.
What used to be a barely-used walking trail had been added to some cycling app. Then came the buzz of tires, the blur of helmets, and the streaks of color flying past his garden fence. At first, Clarence didn’t mind.