In the tear-filled days after he first leaves, creatures begin to visit the garden—foxes and finches, fireflies, and fairies.

One morning, she finds the watery prints of a kelpie trampled across the lawn. He’d be cross about that. The pristine lawn he spent hours aerating, seeding, feeding, mowing into perfectly perpendicular pinstripes. Now it has huge horseshoes weaving through it like lucky steppingstones. She smiles when she sees them, prefers their curving undulations to his rigid lines.

One evening as she stirs soup on the stove, she notices that a ring of red-capped toadstools has appeared beneath the apple tree. Later, she hears lilting lyrical voices, and spies a raucous party of elves gathered there. They look like they’re celebrating. One sees her watching and beckons her.  She spends the evening drinking nectar champagne, making smoke rings with daydreams, and spinning laughter into silver thread.

Each day brings something new. Moles leave gifts of berries and root vegetables beside the back door—their worm-rich hills are impeccably positioned at the four corners of the lawn. Squirrels visit daily, delighting her with gymnastics displays,