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.