The new neighbor mowed his lawn at exactly midnight, every single night. Everyone assumed it was obsession. It wasn't. It was rehearsal. His name was Arthur, though I learned that only after the ambulance came. The stroke left him unable to speak. While helping clear his house, we found calendars stretching back thirty years. Every midnight mowing was marked with a single tick. At the bottom of each page he'd written the same sentence. Keep the lines straight. We thought he meant the lawn. Then we found the maps. Dozens of them. Transparent sheets layered over town plans. His mowing pattern matched old irrigation channels buried beneath the suburb. The channels matched older Roman roads. The roads matched ancient footpaths. Every night, Arthur had been tracing forgotten routes into the earth so they wouldn't disappear completely. After his funeral, volunteers gathered at midnight. We walked the hidden paths instead. Children followed with torches. Someone brought tea. Someone else brought bread. The walks became weekly. Then monthly. Eventually the abandoned corner shop reopened to serve everyone before the midnight walk. The owner complained constantly about running out of oven space. No one took the complaint seriously. Complaining is what happy bakers do. By spring, the bakery had three more ovens than it could ever use.