She sits on the stoop next to Lloyd beneath the old Dutch elm, the two of them reminiscing about Jack, while ‘The Agency’ rips out his carpets, tears down his cupboards, and takes away the thermostat that's been his to control for the last six decades. They've even ripped out the clothes line Jack used to dry his linens in the sun, there in the courtyard of the Brussel Sprouts. The Agency is taking over.
Spring can’t come soon enough at Brussel Sprouts. Even the boughs of the gnarly tree look limp and unwilling to bud this year. Time heals all wounds, they say. But soon, something even more difficult to comprehend will shake the brownstone's residents through and through.
For now, new neighbours are greeted, fresh flowers are planted, Lloyd continues to sit outside her door while she practices her scales, and music continues to ring out from several of the courtyard apartments. This year, for the first time, she finds the sound of the bagpipe especially soothing.