Inside, Henry lay half-asleep, drifting between pain and memories, when he heard it.
A knock.
At first, he thought it was a hallucination.
The second knock was firmer.
With great effort, he rang the bell that barely worked anymore. Minutes passed before the old butler—who had stayed out of pity more than pay—opened the door.
He froze when he saw Lily.
“Yes?” he asked, confused.
“I brought soup,” she said simply, holding up the bowl. “For Mr. Caldwell.”
The butler stared at her, then stepped aside.
Henry’s eyes widened as Lily was guided into his bedroom. He hadn’t seen a child in years. She looked impossibly small against the towering furniture, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
She walked right up to his bed.
“My mom used to say soup helps people feel less alone,” Lily said. “So… I thought you might need some.”
Henry tried to speak. His voice failed him.
Tears—hot, humiliating tears—slid down his cheeks.
No one had come to him without wanting something in decades. No one had offered him anything freely.
