In the soft evening light, Leo looked down the lane and thought of the friend who lived at the end of it. The friend had a sore foot and could not walk out to her tree to pick her own ripe pears.
"I will take her some," Leo said. So he filled a little basket with the roundest, most golden pears, and Grandpa held the door open wide.
Out they went into the cool evening. They passed the low stone wall where the soft green moss grew. Leo ran his hand along the top of it, cool and a little damp, all the way to the end.
At the little blue gate sat the friend, her sore foot resting on a stool. Her face looked tired. But when she saw the basket of pears, it did not look tired at all.
"You picked these? For me?" she asked. Leo nodded and set the basket gently in her lap. "So you don't have to climb," he said.
They sat together while the sky turned pink. The friend ate one ripe, sweet pear and passed one to Leo too. Neither of them said very much. A little bird sang its last soft song of the day, and that was enough.
"Thank you," the friend said. "That was a kind thing to do." Leo felt warm all the way down to his toes. He had not come for a thank-you. He had only wanted her to have the pears.
Then it was time to go home. Back up the lane they walked, Leo and Grandpa, past the low stone wall where the moss grew — darker now, with the very first star blinking awake above it.
Leo gave a big, wide yawn. Grandpa scooped him up, and his head found the warm place on Grandpa's shoulder, just right.
By the time they reached the door, Leo was nearly dreaming. Into the warm bed he went, thinking of golden pears and the friend's happy face. And Leo drifted down, down into sleep, soft and slow, like a ripe pear settling into a basket.