Year: 2025

Most of the residents thought she was a volunteer. She’d come every Tuesday at 3:00 p.m. sharp. Always with a book in hand, sometimes two. Always with that soft, worn cardigan and those gentle eyes. Her name was Mia. No one ever saw her meet with staff. She didn’t sign in. She didn’t bring flowers or balloons or photos. Just stories. She’d sit in the same corner of the recreation room beside a window that barely opened, where the light pooled across faded linoleum. And she’d read. To whoever was…

I noticed him from the kitchen window. An older man in a wheelchair, parked just across the street from our fire station, staring. Not in a creepy way—more like he was watching a memory. Every day around 5 p.m., he’d roll himself into that spot. Sit still for 20 minutes. Then quietly wheel himself away. Didn’t talk. Didn’t wave. Just watched. At first, we thought maybe he was a neighbor. Maybe he liked the sirens. Or maybe—he used to be one of us. So one day, I walked out and…

It started as just another Sunday. I was on my way to my morning shift at the bakery, yawning, earbuds in, coffee in hand. The streets were still quiet—just the soft hum of sprinklers and the occasional bird call. That’s when I saw him. Sitting alone at the corner bus stop. Brown tweed coat, weathered face, silver hair neatly combed. A single white rose wrapped in tissue paper resting gently in his lap. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except—I’d seen him before. Same place. Same time. Same exact…

There’s a little diner just off Main Street that most people forget exists. Vinyl booths. Peeling jukebox. Waitresses who call you “hon” without thinking about it. It’s not the kind of place that makes the news—but it’s the kind of place that remembers your order by the second visit. And every single night, around 6:45, he showed up. An older man—gray hair, shoulders a little too slumped, clothes always the same: dark sweater, worn jeans, clean but tired. He never talked to anyone. Just came in, nodded at the hostess,…