A Christmas Gift I Never Expected
My first Christmas as a widow was meant to be quiet. I worked at the town library during the day and returned each evening to a house heavy with Evan’s absence. He had passed only three months earlier, and I was still learning how to breathe in a life without him.
On my daily walk to work, I noticed an elderly man on a bench outside the library. His coat was worn, his gloves fingerless, and he always read the same folded newspaper.
At first, I barely noticed him. Then, one day, I left a sandwich and coffee by his side. He looked up, his eyes kind but sharp, and said softly, “Take care of yourself, dear.” That small gesture became a quiet anchor in my lonely routine.
As December deepened and the cold grew harsher, I started bringing him little gifts—tea, cookies, a blanket. On Christmas Eve, I approached with a warm thermos, only to find him tense, hands trembling.
He said my name—my name—and begged me not to go home that night. Though my mind resisted, something in his voice felt urgent and true. I spent the night at my sister’s house, restless but safe.
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