Arnold’s 93rd birthday wish was heartfelt: to hear his children’s
laughter fill his house one last time. The table was set,
the turkey roasted, and the candles lit as he waited for them.
Hours dragged on in painful silence until a knock came at the door.
But it wasn’t who he’d been waiting for.
The cottage at the end of Maple Street had seen better days, much like its sole occupant.
Arnold sat in his worn armchair, the leather cracked from years of use, while his tabby
cat Joe purred softly in his lap. At 92, his fingers weren’t as steady as they used to be,
but they still found their way through Joe’s orange fur, seeking comfort in the familiar silence.
The afternoon light filtered through dusty windows, casting long
shadows across photographs that held fragments of a happier time.
