Bill recoiled from a flash of white flesh through the kitchen window. He didn’t see whatever it was. He put down the dishes and turned off the light to get a better look. Illuminated by starlight, he saw someone in the garden. He put on a coat, got the shotgun, and went to investigate. He pushed through the overgrown plants to get to the center clearing. Sitting on a bench was Ethel. She looked exactly as she did when he’d buried her five years before.

“You don’t prune the roses,” she sighed. “You never were a gardener.”