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.
