The next morning, as I scraped paint per HOA orders, Josh appeared with paint, brushes, and an apology. We painted in silence until he quietly confessed he’d lost his wife two years ago. The loneliness had gotten to him.
“My gnomes made the quiet feel less empty,” I said.
He smiled. “Maybe they’re not unlucky. Just misunderstood.”
That evening, we placed the original gnome back by the roses.
“Dinner?” Josh asked. “You can tell me which gnome is most cursed.”
“Only if you stop burning sticks of doom.”
“Deal.”
Sometimes peace doesn’t come from winning. It comes from laughing, painting, and sharing stories—over dinner, and maybe, a gnome.
