It was the following Sunday, a bright October morning, and ‘s porch light was still burning at 9 a.m. Ezra never left it on past sunrise. He was particular about things like that, the small habits of a man who’d lived alone too long.
I stood on my driveway with the newspaper in my hand and stared at that yellow bulb glowing against the daylight. Something felt wrong, but I told myself he’d just forgotten and that I’d mention it when I dropped off the groceries.
I noticed the porch light first.
I went inside to finish my coffee and read the headlines, but I couldn’t focus.
***
By noon, the ambulance pulled up to Ezra’s house. When I went out, a neighbor across the street told me what I already knew. Ezra had passed away in his sleep. Peacefully, they said. He was 84 years old, and I was 40.
I stood on his lawn for a long time after everyone left, looking at the porch light somebody had finally switched off. Claire found me there an hour later and didn’t say anything. She just took my hand.
The ambulance pulled up.
***
The funeral was smaller than I had expected. Much smaller.
A handful of distant acquaintances stood near the back, a tired pastor read from a worn book, and I kept thinking about how Ezra had deserved a fuller room than that.
Across the aisle, one man stood out. He wore a sharp dark suit and kept glancing at his phone, his thumb moving as if the service were an inconvenience.
When the service ended, I was about to leave when the man walked straight toward me.
One man stood out.
“You must be the grocery guy,” he said, offering a hand that felt more like a transaction than a greeting. “I’m Marcus, Ezra’s nephew.”
“Anthony,” I replied. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He gave a thin smile.
“Sure. Over a decade of Sunday visits, huh? That’s a lot of free time to invest in an old man.”
I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my voice level.
