Every evening at six o’clock, the soft chime of the mantel clock echoed through the cozy living room where Barney sat, folding his newspaper. “Mimi? It’s almost time, sweetheart,” he’d call. Margaret—known to everyone as Mimi—would step out from the hallway, brushing down her lavender blouse, her silver hair neatly pinned back. At seventy, she moved with quiet elegance, the comfort of routine keeping time with her every step.
Their home on Silver Oak Street had been theirs for nearly forty years. It was filled with Mimi’s blooming flowers and Barney’s busy bird feeders. But there was a quiet space in the house that never truly healed—the dining room, left untouched since the night they shared roast chicken with their son Adam before he left on a trip from which he never returned.
Instead of letting grief linger, Mimi began a new tradition. Each evening, they would visit a neighbor, bringing along a small homemade gift—candles, scarves, fresh bread—and share a simple meal. It started as a way to cope, but soon became the rhythm of their lives.
That evening, they were headed to Mrs. Chen’s for dumplings. As usual, Barney forgot the gift, and Mimi retrieved it with a smile and a gentle shake of her head. Hand in hand, they strolled out, laughter in the air. As they passed the old Wilson house, Barney nodded. “Looks like we’ve got new neighbors.”
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