The old cemetery opened its November remembrance path shortly after sunrise, when the mist was still hanging between the memorial wall and the bare lime trees. Residents arrived quietly with enclosed lanterns and placed them along the low stone edge, leaving enough room for the caretaker to sweep the wet leaves from the path. By half past eight, nearly every lantern stood at a slightly different angle except one, which had been set exactly halfway between two stones and aligned so neatly with the wall that the caretaker stopped in front of it with his broom.
He moved three leaves from one side, then three from the other, but would not touch the lantern. A woman waiting nearby asked whether there was a rule about moving them. There was not. The caretaker simply said that whoever had placed this one had done so with such determination that disturbing it felt like correcting somebody’s handwriting. For several minutes, visitors stepped around the small patch of unswept pavement with equal seriousness.
Later in the morning, an elderly man returned and admitted the lantern was his. He had placed it for his brother, who, he explained, could never tolerate a crooked picture frame. The caretaker finally lifted the lantern, swept beneath it and returned it to precisely the same spot. He checked the alignment twice before walking away.
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