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opinion. "It was overgrown, Helen. It was practically reaching over into my yard to steal the sunlight. I’m just giving it a haircut." "It is not a haircut," she countered, walking down the steps into her own pristine grass. "It is a massacre. Those branches provide shade for my hostas. You are going to bake them alive by noon." Robert leaned on his shears, his expression shifting from defensive to slightly amused. "Hostas are hardy plants. They have thick skin. Maybe they need a little more excitement in their lives. Everything here is so quiet, so perfectly arranged. Doesn't it ever drive you a little bit mad? The symmetry?" Helen bristled. She liked symmetry. Symmetry meant that the world stayed where you put it. It meant that life, which had been so tragically chaotic when she lost Arthur, could be contained within neat, manageable boxes. "I happen to enjoy my peace. I moved here for the lack of excitement, Robert. It is a highly underrated commodity." "Peace is fine," he said, turning back to the hedge and snipping a branch with a bit more vigor than was necessary. "But isolation is something else entirely. I think you’re just afraid that if you let a little mess into your yard, you might have to admit that you’re a human being who enjoys a bit of color." "My color preferences are none of your concern," she snapped, though her heart did a traitorous little jump. He was too perceptive for a man who spent his afternoons fighting with shrubbery. "Just keep your shears on your side of the property line. If one more twig lands on my mulch, I shall be forced to take legal action." Robert laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the fence. "Legal action over a few clippings? You really are a piece of work, Helen. A very well-maintained, iron-willed piece of work." She retreated back into her house, her face burning. She told herself it was annoyance. She told herself that Robert was simply a loud, intrusive man who lacked the basic social grace to understand that some people preferred to be left alone. But as she sat at her kitchen table, she couldn't help but notice that the view from her window had changed. The hedge was indeed thinner, and for the first time, she could clearly see the silhouette of his house. It looked lonely. The paint was peeling in places, and the curtains were drawn tight, as if the house itself were trying to hide from the world. The afternoon passed in a haze of irritation. Helen tried to read, but her eyes kept drifting toward the window. She watched Robert pace his yard, looking at his phone, then at the sky, then back at his phone. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long day of gardening, but a deep, structural exhaustion that seemed to seep into his very bones. It reminded her of the way Arthur used to look in the final months, when the weight of the world felt too heavy to carry. Around four o’clock, the sky began to change. The polite, blue afternoon curdled into a bruised purple. The birds, usually so chatty in the trees, fell silent. The air grew heavy and thick, pressing against the windows like a physical weight. Helen knew the signs. A summer storm was brewing, the kind that swept in from the valley with little warning and far too much enthusiasm. She went from room to room, closing windows and latching them tight. She checked