It was real.
When I walked toward the tea table, I noticed an envelope resting on one of the chairs.
A small glowing statue had been placed on top of it to keep it from blowing away.
My name was written neatly across the front.
Inside the envelope was a thick stack of cash and a short handwritten note.
“Mr. Hawthorne, use this however you like. You deserve peaceful evenings. Someone made sure this all happened for you.”
I sat down heavily in the chair, stunned.
Who could have done this?
It certainly was not Mr. Carmichael. That man would never lift a finger for anyone unless it served his own ego.
I turned the note over repeatedly, half expecting to find some hidden explanation on the back.
None appeared.
I briefly considered going door to door and asking the neighbors.
But after years of silence and distance between us, the idea felt impossible.
So instead, I waited.
I watered the small rose bush near my patio.
I sat beside the new fence, letting the warm autumn air move gently through the yard.
I listened.
