“Are you sure?” he asked.
“You’re not holding anyone up,” I said, adding a chocolate bar to the belt. “My daughters say every grocery trip needs something sweet. House rule.”
“I know. I want to.”
He looked like he wasn’t used to people choosing kindness.
“You saved me,” he whispered. “You really did.”
I paid the ten dollars and we walked out together. He thanked me again and again — five times, each quieter than the last — before walking off into the evening alone. I watched until he disappeared into shadow, then went home to the noise and warmth of my girls, thinking that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Two mornings later, while pouring my first coffee, someone knocked — sharp, firm, purposeful. I opened the door to find a young woman in a charcoal suit, hair pulled tight, eyes serious.
“Ma’am,” she said, “are you the woman who helped an elderly man on Thursday?”
I tensed. “Is he alright?”
Final request.
The words hollowed something inside me.
She explained how she tracked me down: store cameras, the manager recognizing me, remembering how I’d cared for his wife. How he still had my address on file.
“Please,” she said softly, “he wants to see you.”
I told my girls I’d be right back. Grabbed a coat. Locked the door. Martha drove us to a quiet house tucked between tall trees, old money worn down by time. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and something fading.
Dalton lay on a reclining bed, blanket rising and falling with shallow breaths. When he saw me, his eyes warmed like he’d been waiting.
“You came,” he whispered.
