The new neighbor mowed his lawn at exactly midnight, every single night. At first we complained about the noise. Then we complained when it stopped. Not because we'd grown fond of it, but because the silence lasted seventeen minutes, and during those seventeen minutes something strange happened to the gardens. Roses bloomed. Tomatoes ripened. Dead hydrangeas revived as if someone had whispered apologies into their roots. By 12:17, the mower would start again, and everything returned to ordinary. Mrs. Patel noticed first. Her fig tree, barren for years, suddenly produced fruit every Wednesday morning. Old Mr. Harris found daisies growing through the cracks in his driveway where he'd scattered his late wife's ashes. Nobody confronted the neighbor. Instead, we began leaving things at the edge of his lawn. A cutting from a sick apple tree. A packet of forgotten seeds. Once, someone's wedding bouquet, long since dried. None of it remained by dawn. Spring arrived early that year. The council sent inspectors, convinced someone had altered the groundwater. Scientists took soil samples that revealed nothing unusual beyond unusually healthy earthworms. Then one night, curiosity defeated me. At 11:58, I climbed my fence. The mower made almost no sound up close. It glided rather than rolled, leaving no clippings behind. The neighbor noticed me watching. Without speaking, he lifted the collection bag. Inside wasn't grass. It was moonlight. Thick as fresh cream. He tipped it carefully beneath an old pear tree. The leaves shimmered silver before turning green. The next morning, his house was empty. A FOR SALE sign leaned crookedly beside a lawn already growing wild. Weeks later, someone converted the vacant garage into a community bakery. People joked that the flour must have been magical because every loaf rose perfectly. No one argued. Some miracles are easier to knead than explain. By spring, the bakery had three more ovens than it could ever use.