The rabbit was already there when the light began to change. It stood near the fence, mid-chew, holding still as the yard softened around it.

Henry stepped out onto the grass. The air had cooled—not cold, just no longer holding the day. It brushed his arms as he walked.

The light stretched lower across the yard, slipping along the grass, thinning at the edges of things. Birds moved less now. One call, then quiet. Another, farther off.

Henry stopped.

The rabbit’s ears shifted once, then held again.

The grass under his feet felt cool. The dirt beneath held its warmth. He stayed there a moment, feeling both.

A flicker in the weeds. Gone. Then again. A little farther along.

Henry watched.

The sky deepened—blue leaning toward indigo. The last light caught the edges of the clouds, then let go.

He sat down.

A breeze passed through the yard, low and even, bringing the smell of cut wood and damp soil.

Another flicker. Then two. Not bright. Not steady. Just small lights trying.

Henry pressed his thumb once into his palm. “Good.”

Near his knee, a thin twig caught against his shorts when he shifted. He moved it aside and set it along the edge of the grass.

He lay back. The ground held him—cool in some places, warm in others. Above him, the first star showed through.

The rabbit moved then—two quiet steps—and disappeared into the dim along the fence.

The lights in the grass held a little longer now. Not many. Enough.

Henry stayed.

The yard settled around him, one thing at a time.

When he stood, the light was gone from the dip in the grass. The air had finished changing.

He walked inside. At the door, he gave the latch one small knuckle tap, then closed it gently.

Outside, the yard kept its shape in the dark.

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