The new neighbor mowed his lawn at exactly midnight, every single night. Children called him the Moon Gardener. Adults called him worse. He never argued. Every morning his lawn looked impossibly perfect, yet no one ever saw grass clippings in his bins. When my daughter lost her memory after the accident, I stopped sleeping. One night she whispered, “The grass is singing.” I thought it was medication. The next evening, I carried her to the upstairs window. At midnight, the mower began. She smiled for the first time in months. “He's giving them back.” “Giving what back?” “The memories.” The following morning she remembered our dog. By Thursday she remembered riding her bike. By Sunday she remembered my wife's laugh. Others noticed changes too. An old fisherman recalled where he'd hidden a ring fifty years earlier. A widow suddenly remembered the recipe she'd forgotten since her husband's death. The town grew gentler. People stopped arguing about little things because they were too busy recovering precious ones. I finally knocked on the neighbor's door. Inside, every wall was covered with photographs. None contained people. Only empty gardens. “Why midnight?” I asked. He shrugged. “That's when forgotten things come looking for somewhere soft to land.” The mower never sounded again after that conversation. He vanished before dawn. The lawn grew wild within weeks. No one touched it. Eventually, someone built a bakery beside it instead. Children claimed the smell of fresh bread carried memories farther than the wind ever had. Perhaps they were right. By spring, the bakery had three more ovens than it could ever use.