The pattern continued through spring and summer. I called the police again and again, convinced something wasn’t right. I felt uneasy knowing someone was entering my yard without permission, even if no harm seemed to be done. The officer was always patient, reminding me that while trespassing wasn’t ideal, there was no sign of danger. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something. The man never spoke to me, never approached the house, and always left before anyone arrived. He worked quietly, methodically, as if following a plan only he understood. By fall, nearly the entire fence had been reinforced, piece by piece, without costing me a cent.
One cold morning near the start of winter, I finally confronted him. When he looked up, I froze—not out of fear, but recognition. I suddenly remembered where I had seen him before. Years earlier, when I was a teenager, he lived down the street from my parents. He had helped my father fix our fence back then, too. My dad had passed away long before I bought this house, but the memory hit me all at once. The man didn’t seem surprised that I recognized him. He quietly explained that he rode past one day, noticed the broken fence, and recognized the house as belonging to my family. Fixing fences, he said, was how he kept busy—and how he honored people he once cared about.Continue reading…
