The days passed slowly, each one blending into the next with a sameness that felt both comforting and confining. I busied myself with mundane tasks, hoping to distract from the uncertainty that hovered like a cloud.
On Friday, I decided to take a walk, the fresh air a welcome change from the staleness of my thoughts. The neighborhood was quiet, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
As I rounded the corner, I saw Mr. Thompson, the elderly man who lived a few houses down. He was tending to his garden, the bright blooms a stark contrast to his somber expression.
“Morning,” I called out, offering a wave.
He looked up, a faint smile breaking through his features. “Good morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agreed, pausing by the fence. “Your garden looks amazing as always.”
“Thank you,” he replied, his gaze drifting to the flowers. “They give me something to look forward to each day.”
We chatted for a few minutes, our conversation light and unhurried, but as I walked away, the weight of the letter returned, heavier than before.
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