Clarence Briggs had lived in the same house for over forty years. It sat at the quiet end of Ashberry Lane, just before the woods picked up. He liked it that way—peaceful, tucked back from the noise. The kind of place where things stayed put, and you could breathe.
His wife, Helen, had passed eight years ago, and the silence had deepened. But Clarence didn’t mind the quiet. He had his routines. Morning tea with a splash of honey, a crossword puzzle in pen, and long, steady hours spent tending the yard. That yard had become his pride.