Sunday.
We became friends, though I often felt I knew very little about the man sitting beside me. I knew he had served his country. I knew he had outlived most of his relatives. I knew he spent every Memorial Day placing flowers at a cemetery outside town.
What I didn’t know was what he carried inside.
Then, one rainy morning, Adrian didn’t answer the door.
A few days later, I learned he had passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of seventy-nine.
The news hit harder than I expected.
For years, church members had seen us arrive together. Many assumed we were related. In a way, perhaps we were. Not by blood, but by routine, loyalty, and countless conversations shared during short drives across town.
His funeral was simple but meaningful. Friends, neighbors, former coworkers, and several veterans attended. Stories were exchanged, tears were shed, and memories
