The newspapers started piling up outside Mr. Halvorsen’s door. Neatly at first, then sliding across the porch. By the seventh day, no one had heard from him.
When the landlord finally unlocked the door, we found him at the kitchen table — calm, almost as if he’d just paused mid-thought. But what caught my eye wasn’t him.
There were two place settings. Two glasses. Two plates. One chair empty. Beside it, a worn notebook.
Inside were twenty years of conversations — letters he wrote to his late wife, and the replies he imagined she’d give. Arguments, jokes, apologies, memories… page after page of love preserved in ink.
The final entry read:
“You were quiet tonight.”
“That’s okay. So was I.”
Some love never fades, even after a lifetime of dinners eaten alone.
