If you looked at my life on paper, it would read like a list of losses.
My daughter is gone. My husband followed. All I have left is a small, failing diner my grandfather once ran—the kind of place that creaks, smells like burnt coffee, and still feels like home.
Bills piled up. Chains moved in. I skipped meals and called a broker, wondering if love alone could keep the doors open.
Then one bitter night, the bell rang.
An old man on a crutch stood there with the tiniest, scruffiest dog I’d ever seen. He asked for the cheapest thing on the menu, already counting his coins. I heard my grandfather’s voice in my head: We feed people, not wallets.
I sat him down, cooked a real meal, and fed his dog too. We talked. Mostly, I talked—about my daughter, my husband, the diner slipping away. He listened, really listened, and thanked me for “seeing” him. I refused his money and watched him disappear into the cold.
I thought that was the end of it.
The next morning, I arrived early and froze.
A white envelope was taped to the door. My name was on it.
On the back, written in shaky ink, were two words that stopped my heart:
“From Henry.”
My grandfather’s name.
With trembling hands, I opened it.