The first time I brought it to Arthur’s house, he barely opened the door.
“I didn’t ask for charity,” he grumbled.
“Good, because I didn’t ask if you wanted it.”
He took the plate anyway, and the next morning, it was empty.
That became our routine, but Arthur didn’t get nicer—not really.
About five years in, something shifted.
I knocked like always, but that day, Arthur didn’t shut the door.
“Are you coming in or not?” he called from inside.
I stepped in slowly.
The house was clean.
And the walls stopped me cold—they were covered in photos.
Kids at birthdays. School portraits. Holidays. Smiles frozen in time.
“Your family?” I asked.
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