When I turned 62, life appeared calm and uneventful. My husband had been gone for many years, and my children had their own families now — too busy to visit often.
I lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of town. In the evenings, I would sit by the window, listening to the soft chirping of birds and watching the golden sunlight stretch across the empty street. It was a peaceful existence, yet beneath that quiet surface lay something I rarely dared to acknowledge — loneliness.
That day happened to be my birthday.
No one remembered — not a single call, not even a simple “happy birthday.” So, on a sudden impulse, I decided to take a night bus into the city by myself. I had no plan, only a wish to do something out of the ordinary, something a little bold before time slipped away.
I wandered into a small bar glowing with warm yellow light. The music was gentle, the air soft. Choosing a corner seat, I ordered a glass of red wine. It had been years since I’d last tasted alcohol; the sharp sweetness spread across my tongue and soothed me.
As I watched people come and go, I noticed a man walking toward me. He looked to be in his early forties, with a few strands of gray in his hair and a calm, thoughtful expression. He smiled and asked politely, “May I buy you another drink?”
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