The refinisher said the chemical had penetrated deeper than expected. He could restore the blue finish or strip the door to natural wood. Several neighbors assumed I would choose an even brighter color to make a point. I kept the same muted blue. I had selected it before Celia objected, and I would not let opposition become the author of my taste.

During the no-contact period, the court became quieter in a healthier way. People stopped forwarding rumors through group messages. We created an emergency contact list and left decorating decisions off it. A young couple painted their mailbox green. Nobody held a meeting. Celia walked past my house each morning and kept her eyes on the sidewalk, which was not friendship but was compliance.

Renee visited once to deliver the final repair payment. She said her mother had started volunteering at the historical society, cataloging photographs where her knowledge was invited and useful. I was glad without treating it as restitution owed to me. Renee also apologized for years of accepting Celia’s stories without checking them. I told her I appreciated the apology and still needed distance.

When the new finish cured, I reviewed the camera settings. I shortened retention to thirty days, disabled neighborhood sharing, and posted a small privacy notice beside the bell. The footage had protected me, but I did not want protection to become surveillance by habit. I saved only the evidence required for the agreement. Then I deleted the clip from my phone so I would stop replaying it whenever I passed Celia’s house. Keeping proof had restored the truth. Keeping every moment of her worst choice would have kept me inside it. On warm evenings, I sat beside the restored door with tea, hearing ordinary conversations cross the court without becoming my business.