bags.”
I paused.
“This is about being neighbors.”
He stared at me for a second.
Then something softened in his expression.
“I’d appreciate that.”
Before I left, he called after me.
“Mrs. Collier.”
I turned.
“I’m sorry about the towel.”
“And the cushion.”
“Yes.”
“You should have replaced them.”
“I know.”
He asked how much they cost.
Then he disappeared into his apartment and returned with cash.
The exact amount.
“I looked it up after the management letter,” he admitted.
I took it.
“You should have done that earlier.”
“Yes.”
“But doing it now still matters.”
That afternoon, I carried his packages upstairs.
His apartment looked unfinished.
Pictures still leaning against walls.
Books still boxed.
A home waiting to begin.
“You haven’t settled in,” I said.
“I kept thinking I’d wait until things got better.”
“Until your mother improved.”
He nodded.
I looked at the boxes.
“Put up the pictures.”
