An elderly man on a bus saw a young mother and her baby being thrown out by the driver for not having a ticket. Without hesitation, he handed her his own seat and whispered, “Take my ticket.” A year later, that single act would lead him to a family — and a future — he never imagined.
Peter had lived through 70 winters, and most of them were quiet ones. Too quiet. The kind where the clock ticked a little too loudly in a small room that nobody visited. His life had shrunk over the years, narrowing down to a rented room, a single rocking chair, and a framed picture of his late wife, Margaret.
On this particular morning, he sat on the edge of his bed, tying his worn boots, whispering, “I’m coming, Maggie. Like every year.”
He picked up the single white rose he always brought her.