The morning air was cool and still as I stepped into my yard, barefoot and carrying a small ceramic gnome. With rosy cheeks, a green hat, and a mischievous smile, he looked right at home nestled under the rose bushes. I placed him there carefully—my quiet, whimsical guardian.

“Mary,” a voice called out, sharp as ever, “what is that thing?”

It was Josh, my neighbor and self-appointed neighborhood watchman. His arms were crossed, his expression stern.

“They’re bad luck,” he said flatly. “I read that somewhere.”

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