He never expected anything. He’d nod with the faintest smile and clutch his coffee like it was the only warmth he knew.

One particularly cold morning, I brought him two cups of coffee. That’s when he finally spoke.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You always remember.”
It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them.

We slowly started exchanging names. I was Claire. He was Henry. He had been a carpenter. Life had turned cruel. He lost his wife, his home, and eventually, his place in the world.

But not to me.

A Muffin, A Candle, and a Birthday Wish

I found out, accidentally, when his birthday was. So I brought him a chocolate pie with a single candle. His eyes welled up.