Over the next few days, I found excuses to stop by her room. Sometimes I brought her tea. Sometimes I helped her reach a book on the shelf. Occasionally, I simply sat beside her while she told me stories about her younger years.
She had once traveled across Europe, danced in crowded ballrooms, and fallen in love with a man who promised to grow old beside her.
His name was Thomas.
They had been married for nearly forty years before he died.
« He was a good man, » she told me one afternoon. « Not perfect, but good. He always made me laugh, even when I was determined to be angry with him. »
« What happened after he died? » I asked.
Eleanor looked out the window.
« I learned that loneliness isn’t always about being alone. Sometimes it’s about having a thousand things to say and nobody left who remembers why they matter. »
I didn’t know what to say to that.
So I stayed.
