Chapter 1 - The Boy With the Old Mower
I signed the papers on my new house on a Thursday. By Saturday morning, I was already questioning whether owning a home was going to be as relaxing as everybody promised. The grass reached my ankles. The flower beds had disappeared under weeds. The previous owner clearly hadn't touched the yard in weeks, maybe longer.
I'd just hauled another moving box through the front door when someone knocked.
A boy who looked about fifteen stood on my porch next to an old red push mower. His baseball cap was faded almost white from the sun. His sneakers had been patched more than once. The mower looked like it had survived a couple of generations of use and wasn't done yet.
"You the new owner?"
"That's me."
Instead of introducing himself, he looked past me, taking in the whole house — porch, upstairs windows, and finally the detached garage sitting out back. His eyes stayed on the garage longer than anything else, and for just a second, something like a small, strange smile crossed his face.
"Good," he said.
I frowned. "Good?"
"I was hoping somebody would finally move in."
"What do you mean, finally?"
He looked embarrassed all at once. "Nothing. Empty houses just make me sad sometimes."
He nudged the mower with the toe of his sneaker.
"Anyway — I'm Tyler. I live with my mom over at Willow Bend Trailer Park. Trying to make some money before school starts. You need your lawn done?"
"How much?"
"Twenty-five bucks."
Less than half what a landscaping company would've charged me. "I'll give you fifty if you do a good job."
His eyes went wide. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
He grinned and got to work without another word.
For the next hour, I unpacked boxes while the steady drone of the mower drifted through the windows. Every time I glanced outside, Tyler was still going — no phone, no earbuds, no disappearing for twenty-minute breaks like most kids his age would. By the time he finished, my yard looked like an entirely different property.
I handed him fifty dollars.
"You don't have to pay me this much. I said twenty-five."
"And I said fifty."
He stared at the bills for a second like he wasn't sure they were real. "Thank you."
As he pushed his mower back down the driveway, something nagged at me. His face looked familiar. I couldn't place where I'd seen him before, but the feeling stuck with me long after he disappeared around the corner.
The following Saturday, Tyler showed up again at exactly eight in the morning and went straight to work. About an hour in, I brought him a cold bottle of water.
"You've earned a break."
"Thanks, Mr. Grant."
While he drank, his eyes drifted toward the garage.
"You ever been inside there?"
"Not yet."
He looked genuinely surprised. "Really?"
"Still unpacking."
He nodded, but something shifted in his expression that I couldn't quite name. The following week, I caught him standing beside the garage before he'd even touched the mower, his fingertips resting lightly against the old wooden siding like he was checking whether it was still there.
"Everything okay?"
He jerked his hand back. "Yeah."
"What were you looking at?"
"The garage."
"What about it?"
He hesitated a beat too long, then just walked back to his mower without answering.
That became our routine. Tyler showed up every Saturday, mowed the lawn to perfection, and argued every single time I tried to pay him extra. The more Saturdays that went by, the more convinced I got that I'd seen his face somewhere before this summer.
Then, about a month after I first hired him, my boss canceled an afternoon meeting and I got home hours earlier than usual.
The mower sat in my backyard with the engine still running. One strip of grass was left unfinished.
"Tyler?"
No answer.
I walked around the side of the house. "Tyler?"
Still nothing.
Then I saw the garage.
The door was open.
I stopped walking. That didn't make sense — I'd never once used that garage, and its only key stayed on a hook by my kitchen door.
A few seconds later, Tyler came jogging out. The moment he saw me, he froze in place.
"I didn't hear your truck."
"I can tell."
I looked past him into the dark garage. "How'd you get in there?"
"Door was open."
"No. It wasn't."
"It was when I got here."
I pulled the key out of my pocket and held it up. "I've had this on me all day."
His eyes flicked toward the garage and back. "It was hot out. I just wanted somewhere cool to sit for a minute."
That explanation was suspicious enough on its own.
Then he said something worse.
"You keep it locked now?"
My stomach tightened. I had never once told Tyler that garage used to be unlocked.
"What did you just say?"
His face went pale. "I—"
"You asked if I keep it locked now. How would you know it wasn't always locked?"
He looked down at his shoes. "I should go."
"Tyler."
He stopped mid-step.
"If you don't tell me what's going on, don't bother coming back."
For several long seconds, he just stood there. Then he whispered, "I'm sorry," shut off the mower, lowered the handle, and pushed it down the driveway without asking for his pay.
The next Saturday came. No Tyler.
Nor the Saturday after that.
Then, three days later, I spotted him outside a grocery store climbing into a brand-new black SUV. At first I thought I had the wrong kid entirely. The faded cap was gone. So were the patched jeans and worn sneakers. Tyler was wearing a designer polo, spotless shoes, and a watch that looked like it cost more than my car payment.
Then he looked straight at me.
May you like
It was him. No question.
The SUV pulled away before I could even call his name, and I stood there wondering if anything he'd ever told me had been true.
