Things changed on Clover Lane after that Saturday. Biscuit was walked on a leash now, and Mrs. Peterson carried a little roll of bags on the handle of it. The terriers stayed on the footpath. Tank moved at the same slow pace as always, but Mr. Garcia now guided him firmly away from Walter’s grass, and one afternoon, he even stopped by and said, “We should have done better. Sorry, Walter.” Walter nodded, said “Thank you, Rafael,” and meant it. It was a real moment, and Walter thought those were often the most useful kind.
By spring, the lawn had recovered fully. The reseeded patch had filled in, and the whole thing was even and deep green again, exactly as Walter liked it. He came out every morning with his coffee, stood on the porch, and looked at it. Sometimes Mrs. Chen waved from across the road. Sometimes Danny cycled past and gave a thumbs up. Walter always nodded back. He did not consider himself a difficult man, or a vengeful one. He was simply a man who had cared for something for thirty-one years, and in the end, found a way to make that matter. His goldfish, for what it was worth, seemed to agree.