Nearly an hour passed before she saw him: a small, thin boy, maybe nine years old. His clothes were worn, his face streaked with dirt. He didn’t grab the pie. Instead, he knelt at the grave and began to write something on a scrap of paper.
Just as he reached for the plate, Nancy stepped forward. The boy jumped, startled. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to steal. I was just really hungry.”
Nancy’s heart softened. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jimmy,” he whispered.
She knelt beside him. “You don’t have to take things, Jimmy. You can always ask.”
He looked down, embarrassed. “It was just… the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
In that moment, Nancy didn’t see a thief. She saw a boy who reminded her of Henry—not in appearance, but in need. In innocence. In vulnerability.
She held out her hand. “Come with me. I’ll make one just for you.”
Back at her home, she did what she hadn’t done in years: baked with someone else. Jimmy sat quietly, watching her peel apples, roll dough, and sprinkle cinnamon. When the pie came out of the oven, golden and fragrant, she placed it before him.
“This one’s yours,” she said.
Jimmy took a bite and his eyes lit up. “It’s amazing,” he said, grinning between mouthfuls.
As Nancy watched him eat, something shifted inside her. The kitchen, once filled only with memories, felt alive again. Warm, not just from the oven—but from the presence of someone who needed her.
Maybe, she thought, this wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe Henry had sent Jimmy into her life to show her that love—especially the kind shared through something as simple as a pie—could still grow. Could still heal.
For the first time in decades, Nancy didn’t feel empty. She felt whole.