Lily sat beside him, careful not to spill the soup, and lifted the spoon just as she’d done for Mrs. Finch countless times.
“Slowly,” she reminded him.
From that night on, Lily came every day.
Sometimes with soup. Sometimes with bread. Sometimes with nothing but stories about school she didn’t attend and dreams she didn’t know how to reach. She cleaned his room, read him old books, and listened as he finally spoke—about regrets, lost love, and a life built on money instead of people.
Henry waited for her knock more than he waited for medicine.
One evening, weaker than ever, he took Lily’s small hand in his trembling one.
“Why do you do this?” he whispered. “You owe me nothing.”
She shrugged. “You looked lonely.”
Henry Caldwell passed away three days later.
At the funeral, only three people attended: the butler, a distant lawyer, and Lily—wearing her only clean dress, clutching the same chipped bowl.
The town barely noticed.
