I found him collapsed in the laundry room, clutching his chest… and still holding that snuff box.
“Walter?” I whispered.
He barely opened his eyes. “Sorry… Paula…”
At the hospital, the doctor said it likely wasn’t his first heart attack.
When I sat beside him, he pressed the snuff box into my hands.
“Open it… after I’m gone,” he said.
I shook my head. “You’re going to be fine.”
But he made me promise.
So I did.
For illustrative purposes only
Walter passed away that night.
The house felt empty again—but different this time.
Not just loss… but something deeper.
After the funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to open the box.
Not yet.
Three nights later, I finally did.
Inside was a folded note.
My note.
“You deserve kindness today. Enjoy your meal :)”
I froze.
And then I remembered.
Two years ago, during a pizza delivery… an elderly man couldn’t afford both boxes he had ordered. I left both anyway, with that note.
I never saw his face.
But now I knew.
It had been Walter.
Beneath the note was an envelope filled with cash… and another letter.
“Paula,” it began, “that rainy night—you found me again.”
He wrote that he recognized me immediately at the park.
