I spent weeks rehearsing what I’d say if I ever caught him there again, cycling through threats and accusations in my head. But every time his bike rumbled away, all I found was another straightened board, another tightened hinge, another quiet kindness I hadn’t asked for and didn’t know how to trust. My neighbors whispered theories; I clung to my fear like a shield, because fear felt safer than uncertainty.
Standing in the yard at last, voice trembling, I asked him why. He spoke my father’s name gently, like it was something fragile he’d been carrying for years. The fence he’d once helped my father mend had long since fallen, but the promise he’d made had not. In that moment, the leather jacket, the weathered face, the late-night visits rearranged themselves into something softer. Safety, I realized, isn’t always who we keep out—but sometimes who quietly chooses to stay.
