The new neighbor mowed his lawn at exactly midnight, every single night. I hated him instantly. I'd suffered insomnia for fifteen years. The engine became the soundtrack to my resentment. Then something impossible happened. Every night, precisely when he started mowing, I dreamed. Not after falling asleep. Instead of sleep. I'd stand beside strangers, living moments that weren't mine. A sailor surviving a storm. A schoolteacher proposing marriage. A baker laughing as flour exploded across a kitchen. At 12:19, I'd wake with details I couldn't possibly know. The dreams accumulated. Names. Addresses. Recipes. One Saturday I baked the bread from one dream. It tasted exactly like my grandfather used to make. The problem was my grandfather had never baked. The dreams belonged to people who'd died nearby. The lawnmower wasn't noisy. It was translating. Eventually the neighbor invited me over. His garage contained shelves of labelled seed packets. “Are these flowers?” “People.” He explained that grief scattered memories like seeds. Most never took root. His work simply helped them germinate. When he left town, he handed me a small paper envelope. Inside was a single grass seed. “For somewhere that needs remembering.” I planted it beside the abandoned corner shop. Six months later, someone converted the building into a bakery. Customers lined up around the block before opening day. The owner swore she'd never intended to expand. Life had other ideas. By spring, the bakery had three more ovens than it could ever use.