My name is Mr. Whitmore. Seventy-five years behind me, most days exactly the same. Maybe that was why I kept going. Predictability. Order.
Morning oats with half a carrot. A chipped bowl washed and put back. Sinatra on the record player while I read the obituaries—just to be sure I wasn’t in them. By ten sharp, I walked to the park, nodding at neighbors who knew me only in passing.
But my bench wasn’t random. It was ours. Clara’s and mine. I still whispered to her there. Talking to her was the only part of my day that made sense.
And then, one rainy morning, a little girl stopped before me. Leah. Red boots, knitted hat—handmade, like Clara’s work. She laid her tiny jacket across my knees. Inside the collar was stitched a gold “C” with an oak leaf. Clara’s mark.
The next morning, for the first time in years, I broke my routine. Eggs instead of oats. Flowers in a vase. A new step in my walk. But Leah didn’t return. Days passed. Until the mailman mentioned a woman and child at the shelter near the park.
I went. Leah ran into my arms. And then—I saw her. Clara. Older, lined with years I hadn’t shared.
“You left me,” she whispered bitterly. Her mother had told her I’d abandoned her. While I had waited, she had struggled alone, lost our daughter, and raised Leah.
We pieced the truth together. Her mother’s lies had kept us apart. I gave her the caramels I’d saved, night after night, as proof of my waiting. Her hand closed over them, tears in her eyes.
“Don’t wait anymore, Mr. Whitmore,” Leah said.
