Night after night, I returned. We talked about everything and nothing—the weather, the changing neighborhood, the ache in her knees when it rained. Gradually, it became a routine.
Eight months passed. Eight months of stories, laughter, and quiet companionship neither of us had expected.
Slowly, she grew weaker. Her steps slowed. Her hands trembled more. Her voice softened. But each night, when she opened the door and saw me, her eyes lit up.
Then, one evening, the door didn’t open. The porch light was off. The house was silent.
Later, I learned she had passed that morning. I attended her funeral. Few people came. The room felt large, empty, filled more with absence than mourners.
A few days later, her lawyer contacted me. She had left something in her will—not money, not anything grand. A single teacup.
Delicate porcelain, decorated with a faded rose.
