Then he smiled.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied, clearing my throat. “May I… may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
He stepped aside.
A small boy peeked out from behind his legs.
He looked about six years old, with curious eyes and soft light-brown curls.
“This is Henry,” Graham said. “My son.”
Henry waved.
“Hello, Henry,” I said, returning a small smile.
We sat down in the living room.
After a moment, I said quietly:
“I owe you more than thanks. The fence, the money, the recording—everything. I don’t even know how to begin.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Graham replied. “I just did what anyone should.”
“That’s the thing,” I said softly. “No one else did.”
He looked down briefly.
“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
My breath caught.
“After my family’s accident,” I said slowly, “I stopped talking to people. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore… It was too much. And then that man wrecked my fence and made me feel small and useless. Like, I didn’t matter anymore.”
“You do matter,” Graham said gently. “That’s why I fixed it before you could see it again in daylight. I didn’t want you to have that image stuck in your head.”
I stared at him, speechless.
He continued:
“You see, when my wife passed… during Henry’s birth… I thought I’d never come back from it. I shut myself off, too. But Henry needed me. And then one day I realized someone out there might need me, too. Someone like you.”
He smiled faintly.
“You know, he helped me pick the statues I put up in your garden. He loves lights. Says they keep the ‘night monsters’ away.”
