Lexi closed the box. She didn’t call Silas—not yet. Instead, she found Ezra’s last known address. He was 92 now, living in a nursing home two towns over.
It started with an overgrown lot on Maple Street. The elderly owner, Mrs. Gable, had passed away, and the new owner—a quiet, pale man named Silas—hired Lexi to clear the invasive wisteria and tangled boxwoods. “Just dig deep,” he’d said, his eyes flickering toward the massive oak tree. “The roots run farther than you think.” lexi luna landscaper
