By the time he reached the second page, his eyes were wet.
I sat beside him without asking questions.
Eventually, he handed me the letter.
Mr. Vance wrote that he had spent much of his life believing there would always be more time.
More time to repair damaged relationships.
More time to apologize.
More time to call people he missed.
More time to become the kind of man he had always intended to be.
But the years had passed faster than he expected.
Some friendships disappeared.
Family relationships hardened.
People died before he found the courage to say what he should have said while they were still alive.
Then Noah entered his life.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Mr. Vance remembered Noah carrying his groceries inside without being asked.
He remembered him shoveling snow from his walkway before clearing our own driveway.
He remembered Noah sitting on his porch one summer afternoon simply because the old man looked lonely.
There had been other moments I hadn’t known about.
Noah had changed a porch light.
Picked up prescriptions.
