We took turns on the ladder. We didn’t talk about the HOA, or the gnomes—at least, not at first. While rinsing brushes near the hose, he said, “Lost my wife two years ago.
House’s been too quiet ever since. Sometimes the silence feels like it’s pressing on my chest.”
I nodded. “This place used to feel too big.
But the gnomes made it mine, somehow. Silly, I know.”
As the sun dipped low, the house looked brighter. Like it had forgiven both of us.
“You still mad about the gnomes?” I asked. Josh shook his head. “Nah.
Maybe they’re not unlucky. Maybe they’re just misunderstood.”
I smiled. “Like you?”
He looked over and said softly, “Maybe.”
That evening, after the last streak of paint dried, I stood at the front lawn again, gnome in hand.
“Can I put him back?” I asked Josh, who leaned on the fence like he belonged there. “Let’s start with one,” he said. “Test the spiritual waters.”
“Hard to choose,” I teased.
“They all have such personalities.”
He walked over, picked up the original gnome. “Let’s go with this one. He looks like he’s seen some things.”
We placed him together, just to the right of the rose bush.
“Dinner?” Josh asked suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I can help you pick the least haunted of the rest.”
I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “Sure,” I said.
“Bring the smudge sticks if things go south.”
He chuckled. “Deal.”
As we stood there, side by side, the wind shifted. The lanterns were gone.
The gnome’s smile looked less mischievous, more content. Maybe luck, like people, just needs time to be understood. And maybe peace, like paint, takes a few coats to stick.
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