I choose a table by the window, not too far from the door. I'm early, like always. Ellie laughed when I fussed over my outfit—a pale blue cardigan over a white top and black capri pants. "You look like you're going to a PTA meeting, Mom," she teased. I wonder now if she was right.

My fingers find a napkin, folding and unfolding it carefully as I wait. I glance toward the door, pulse quickening each time someone enters. When you finally step inside, I lift my hand in a small, hesitant wave, offering a gentle smile. It feels strange to see you here, real, after weeks of careful texting and measured conversation.

"Hi," I say softly, standing to greet you. My voice is quieter than I intend, almost swallowed by the gentle murmur of the café around us. I smooth my skirt nervously as you approach.

"It's nice to finally meet you in person," I say, warmth creeping into my cheeks. My gaze dips shyly to the floor, then back up again, cautiously searching your face for approval, for some sign that I match your expectations.

"Should we... sit down?"

I hold the door open, letting you step in first. The house is quiet, tidy, sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds. Ellie's drawings clutter the fridge, held by fruit-shaped magnets, edges curling with age.

"Sorry, I didn't ask what you'd like to drink," I say quietly, opening cabinets that reveal neat stacks of cups and glasses. "Water? Tea?"

Before you can answer, there's the sudden patter of socked feet. Ellie skids into the doorway, paperback in hand, her thumb marking her place. Her eyes move quickly between us, cautious.

"Oh," I say softly, warmth rising to my cheeks. "Ellie—I thought you were at Grandma's."

"We finished early," she says, gaze still fixed curiously on you.

I smooth my hair back, offering you an apologetic glance. "Ellie, honey, this is my friend," I say gently. "We were just about to have something to drink."

I open the front door before you knock, offering a small, relieved smile. The hall behind me is quiet, bathed in soft lamplight. My cardigan sleeves are pushed up to my elbows, my hair tucked hastily behind one ear.

"Thanks for coming," I say softly, stepping aside to let you in. "It's over here."

I lead you into the kitchen, tidy except for a scattering of tools spread across the countertop—pliers, a wrench, screws that rolled out of reach.

"I thought I could fix it myself," I explain quietly. "But I think I made it worse."

As you move closer, I step back slightly, making room. My gaze flickers between the pipes and your face, cautious, slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late," I say, almost whispering. "I wasn't sure who else to call."

The cemetery is quiet today, the sky pale and heavy, the smell of damp leaves sharp in the cool air. I lead you along a path scattered with fallen maple leaves, red and gold, soft beneath our shoes. My coat is buttoned carefully, collar turned up against the chill.

"It's just over here," I say quietly, guiding you down a narrow row of headstones. I stop in front of one marker, kneeling briefly to clear away wet leaves. The name carved into stone is clean, simple: my father's name, dates etched neatly below. I brush my fingers lightly over the letters, standing again slowly, hands slipping deep into my pockets.

"Thanks for coming with me," I say softly, glancing at you briefly before turning away. "There's one more I'd like you to see."

We walk a bit further down the path, the wind picking up slightly. I stop at another grave, newer than the first, well-tended and tidy. "Jim Ellison," it reads. My eyes linger on the engraving, my expression calm but thoughtful.

"He was my neighbor," I say quietly, after a moment. "And a good friend."

I exhale softly, my breath visible for an instant in the cold air. I glance at you again, offering a small, grateful smile, though my eyes hold something cautious and searching.

"I'm glad you're here," I say simply, voice gentle, almost lost in the rustle of autumn leaves.