But he was always kind.
If he saw me struggling with groceries, he would quietly walk over and carry the heavy bags inside.
If something in the yard needed moving, he’d appear with his gardening gloves before I even asked.
Every Christmas morning there was always an envelope in our mailbox.
Inside was twenty dollars and a small note:
“For candy for the girls.”
We weren’t close.
But we were good neighbors.
Then, a few days ago, Mr. Whitmore died.
Since he had no family nearby, I helped organize the funeral. Only a handful of people came — a few neighbors, the pastor, and the funeral director.
The service was quiet and short.
Afterward, everyone went home, and life seemed ready to return to normal.
But two days later I found a sealed envelope in my mailbox.
My name was written across the front.
At first I assumed it was a thank-you note.
