Three weeks after Walter’s funeral, Emma was mid-hift when they walked in. Three men in suits, two carrying briefcases, one checking his watch like he had somewhere better to be. She was refilling coffee for Jerry, who never drank it, just liked having it. When Deb hissed from behind the counter, “That’s a lawyer walk if I’ve ever seen one.

” Emma looked up, the tall one in the back. She knew that face. Blue eyes like Walters. That was the grandson, the one who’d shown up 40 minutes late to the funeral, looking like he’d flown in from somewhere important and would fly right back out. They sat at booth 7. The lawyers opened briefcases with that particular clicking sound expensive leather makes.

 The grandson, what was his name? Michael Matthew sat stiff, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Deb nudged her. Table 7 needs menus. I’m not. You’re up, M. I’ve got my hands full. Deb was holding one coffee pot. She was lying. Emma grabbed menus, walked over. Welcome to Rosy’s. Can I We’re here for Emma Chen, one of the lawyers said, looking at a file. She froze.

That’s me, the lawyer smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was the smile people use before delivering bad news gently. We need to discuss an estate matter regarding Walter Chen. Do you have a few minutes? Her first thought, I can’t afford a lawyer. Her second thought, did they think I stole something? Her third thought. I’m still holding these menus.

I’m working. She said the grandson. No, wait. She remembered now from the funeral program. Marcus spoke for the first time. This won’t take long. She looked at Deb. Deb made a shoeing motion. Go. Emma sat. Didn’t put down the menus, held them like a shield. The first lawyer, his name tag said Peterson. Pulled out papers. Ms. Chin.

Walter Chin’s will has been executed. You’ve been named as a beneficiary. The word hung there. Beneficiary. I don’t understand. She said, “Walter left you his house.” Peterson said, “The property at 417 Greenwood Avenue.” Deb from across the diner dropped a spoon. It clattered. Everyone looked. Emma heard herself laugh. Not a happy laugh.

 A laugh like, “What? Why would he do that?” Peterson looked uncomfortable. Marcus looked at the table. The second lawyer, no name tag, gray suit, cleared his throat. The will includes a letter. Would you like Mr. stone to read it. Or stone? Emma looked at Marcus. Your last name is Stone.

 My father’s name, Marcus said quietly. My mother’s side is Chen. Walter never mentioned you. The words came out before she could stop them. True, but rude. She didn’t apologize. Marcus’s jaw tightened. I know. Peterson pushed the letter across the table. Perhaps you’d prefer to read it privately. Emma picked it up.

 Walter’s handwriting shaky but clear. Emma, thank you for seeing me. Not many people do that anymore. I’m leaving you the house because you’re the only one who visited it these last years as if it was a home. Not a burden. My grandson Marcus needs to learn what you already know. How to see people, how to be with them without needing to fix them.

 Maybe you can teach him or maybe you can’t. Either way, the house is yours. You earned it by never trying to. Walter. She read it twice, looked up. He wants me to teach you. Marcus shifted. I’m aware of how that sounds. Do you? Emma set the letter down, looked at Peterson. I don’t want the house. Peterson blinked. I’m sorry.

 I said I don’t want it. M Chen, the property value is approximately. I didn’t ask him for this. Her voice rose slightly. Jerry looked over. She lowered it. I brought him coffee. I sat with him when he was sick. I didn’t do it for for this. Nevertheless, the gray suit said the will is legally binding. The property transfers to you regardless of whether you accept it in spirit.

>> So I’m stuck with a house I can’t afford to keep because an old man felt guilty. Marcus flinched. She’d meant to hurt him. It worked. She felt bad. Not bad enough to take it back. The property taxes alone are probably more than I make. And she stopped. Realized she was still holding the menus.

 Set them on the table. This is insane. Uh, there are options, Peterson said. You could sell it, rent it, or or keep it, Marcus said. His first full sentence since sitting down. If you want. Emma looked at him directly for the first time. He looked tired. Not just tired. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Guilty and trying not to show it. “Why are you here?” she asked. “I’m the executive,” he said. And I owed him this. Being here, making sure he stopped, started over. I should have been here three weeks ago before before he died. He meant before the funeral. Before all of it. Emma stood up. I need to get back to work.

 We’ll need your signature on later. She said, “Um, I’ll come by your office later.” She walked back to the counter, grabbed a coffee pot. Lucille, the temperamental one that only worked if you hit it twice on the left side. She poured coffee she didn’t need to pour. Hands shaking. Deb appeared beside her.

 What the hell just happened? I inherited a house. That’s good, right? I have no idea. Emma watched the three men gather papers, stand, leave. Marcus looked back once. She looked away first. Did you steal his silverware? Deb asked. He had IKEA forks, Deb. Just checking. Uh Deb hipbumped her gently. You okay? Emma sat down the coffee pot.

 Table 9 needs a refill. That’s not what I asked. I know, Emma grabbed Lucille, but it’s the answer you’re getting. 6 months earlier, Emma’s alarm didn’t go off. She woke at 5:47 a.m. Anyway, her body was a prison of routine. She looked at her reflection while brushing her teeth. We doing this again? Yeah, cool. Love that for us.

 The reflection didn’t answer. It rarely did. Her apartment was small, not tiny. Seattle rent was brutal. But she’d lucked into this place 6 years ago before the neighborhood got expensive. One bedroom, kitchen with appliances from 1987. Bathroom where the shower took 3 minutes to warm up, but the window faced east.

 Morning light was free. She made coffee. Watered the plants on the window sill. Two succulents named Dorothy and Blanch. Golden Girls theme. Deb’s idea. Morning ladies. Still alive? Me too. Wild. The bus route 44 came at 6:12 a.m. She caught it at 6:09. Standing room only. Pressed against a man reading news on his phone. Headline: Tech stocks.

 Tech stocks sore. She wondered what that felt like having stocks that soared. Rosy’s diner opened at 6:30 a.m. Emma arrived at 6:24, unlocked the door. She had a key after 6 years. Flipped in the sign to open. The diner was a long, narrow space with red vinyl booths, black and white checkered floors, and a counter with 12 stools.

 It smelled like coffee and maple syrup and decades of breakfast grease. Emma loved it in a way that felt like Stockholm syndrome. She tied on her apron. The diner’s logo, a cartoon rose with a winking face, was faded to near invisibility. She’d requested a new one twice. Management said it had character. Uh Deb arrived at 6:28, always 2 minutes before shift. Morning sunshine.

 Morning nightmare. Their routine. Six years running. The morning crowd trickled in. Jerry eggs never eats them. Paula oatmeal leaves religious pamphlets as tips. Miguel pancakes asks about Emma’s day like he actually cares. The coffee pots, there were three, all temperamental, started their chorus. Emma had named them.

 Lucille, left side, Psy, middle country music joke, and Loretta, the reliable one. At 7:13 a.m., the door chimed. An old man walked in. White hair, carefully combed, pale blue eyes, oversized cardigan despite it being July, shoes polished to a shine you rarely saw anymore. He sat at booth 3, didn’t look at the menu. Emma approached with coffee pot. Morning.

 Can I start you with coffee, please? Two sugars, no cream, she poured. Ready to order, or do you need a minute? Just coffee is fine. Um, you sure? We’ve got a special I’m sure. Thank you. The thank you was specific. Not the automatic kind. The kind that meant it. Emma brought two sugar packets. He opened them carefully, poured them in, stirred exactly seven times, pulled a newspaper from his bag, actual newspaper, not phone, and started reading.

 She checked on him twice. Both times. I’m fine, thank you. At 8:47 a.m., he paid, left $3 for a $2.50 coffee, walked out. Deb appeared at Emma’s elbow. New regular? Maybe, Emma said. Or a one-time thing. The next morning, he came back. 7:13 a.m. Exactly. Booth 3. And the next morning, and the next. By day four, Emma had his coffee ready before he sat.

 He noticed, looked at her with something like surprise. You’re good at this. Scary good or impressive good? He smiled. Both. I’ll take it. She set down the cup. I’m Emma, by the way. Walter. Nice to meet you, Walter. Likewise. Um, their conversations didn’t extend much beyond that, but the silences were comfortable.

 Emma refilled his cup without asking. He left $2 tip every time, like clockwork. Week two, he brought a different newspaper. Same one as yesterday. Emma noticed. Rough news day. Everyday is rough if you read too closely. He folded the paper. This is from 1987. I prefer it. The news was better in ‘ 87. The news was just as bad, but the writing was better.

 Emma laughed. Actually laughed, not the customer service version. That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all week. It’s only Tuesday. Fair point. Uh, and by week three, Emma knew Walter liked his coffee specific. He read old newspapers because new ones depressed him. He always said thank you. He never asked her about herself, which meant he was either polite or uninterested.

 She decided on polite. By week four, the morning regulars knew him. Jerry nodded. Paula left him a pamphlet once. He read it politely, left it on the table. Miguel asked if he was Emma’s grandfather. She said, “No.” Miguel said, “Shame. You’d make a good granddaughter.” By week 6, Walter stayed until 9:00 a.m. instead of 8:47.

 “No reason, just 15 extra minutes.” “Nowhere to be?” Emma asked, refilling his third cup. “Not particularly.” “Must be nice.” It’s lonely, he said, then looked surprised he’d said it. Emma sat down across from him. Technically against policy. Technically, she didn’t care. You live nearby? 10-minute walk. He gestured vaguely. North. Old house.

 Too big for one person. Family? Had a wife. Lost her eight years ago. Son moved to California. Grandson’s in the city, but he trailed off. Busy. The word busy landed heavy. I’m sorry, Emma said. Don’t be. Walter smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That’s life. People move on. Should be happy they’re successful. Should be and are aren’t always the same.

No, Walter agreed. They’re not, Emma stood. Next coffeey’s on me. You don’t have to. I want to. She brought him a fourth cup. He didn’t drink it. Just held it. Watched steam rise. That became their thing. Walter came. Emma poured coffee. Sometimes they talked. Often they didn’t. It was enough. Then week 8, Walter didn’t come. Emma waited.

 713 became 720. 720 became 7:45. Nothing. Where’s your boyfriend? Deb teased. He’s 80. Deb love knows no age limits, sweetie. I will put decaf in your next cup. You wouldn’t dare. Walter came back the next day. Looked tired. Thinner somehow. You okay? Emma asked. Had a small episode. Nothing serious. uh episode.

 The kind where you wake up on the floor and can’t remember getting there. He said it like a joke. It wasn’t. Did you see a doctor? They said I’m old. He smiled. Surprise. Emma sat down again. Walter. I’m fine, Emma. Really just glad to be back for the coffee. And the company? That too. But he wasn’t fine. She could see it. The slight tremor in his hands.

 The way he held the newspaper without really reading it. If you need anything, she said, I mean it. I know you do. He reached across, patted her hand once. That’s why I keep coming back. Marcus Stone woke at 5:47 a.m. in his downtown Seattle apartment. Not because of an alarm, because his brain decided sleep was over.

 He lay there for 3 minutes staring at the ceiling. White ceiling, expensive building, floor to ceiling windows showing the city waking up. He’d paid premium for the view. Rarely looked at it. His phone showed 17 emails. He answered 12 before getting out of bed. The apartment was minimalist, not by choice, by lack of time. He’d lived here 2 years.

 Still had boxes in the second bedroom he meant to unpack. Furniture from West Elm. Functional, expensive, soulless. Conference call at 6:00 a.m. Tokyo didn’t care about Seattle time zones. The third quarter projections need adjustment, Marcus said, pacing his living room in suit pants and undershirt.

 If we push the timeline to um his phone buzzed, calendar reminder. Grandpa Walter’s birthday tomorrow. He swiped it away. Continued the call. Q4. We’re looking at better margins. Yes, I’ll send the revised deck by another buzz. Same reminder. He muted himself. Dismissed the notification. Unmuted. Sorry. By EOD today.

 The call went until 7:15. He made decisions about supply chains and vendor contracts and logistics that affected hundreds of people. He was good at this. 29 years old, director level position, six figures, respected. His father called at 7:20. Did you send the quarterly report? Morning, Dad. Don’t morning me. Did you send it? I’m finalizing it now.

 I need it by 9:00. You’ll have it. Silence. Then you remembered Walter’s birthday. Marcus looked at his dismissed reminder. Tomorrow? Yes. And you should visit. I will. You say that every year. I mean it every year. His father sighed. He’s getting older, Marcus. I know. Do you? The call ended. Marcus stood in his kitchen, opened the fridge, leftover Thai food from 3 days ago, energy drinks, condiments.

 He drank an energy drink for breakfast. Another call at 7:45, then 8:15, then 9:00. By noon, he’d worked through lunch, answered 43 emails, and revised 17 presentation slides. He ordered delivery, fell asleep on his couch before it arrived, woke at 6:17 p.m. to his phone ringing. Boston office. Stone here. He worked until 11 p.m. Forgot to eat the delivery.

 Forgot to call his grandfather. Forgot most things that weren’t in Outlook calendar. The next morning, his alarm actually went off. 6:00 a.m. Another call. He was on video. Quarterly review with the seauite making points about market positioning, looking sharp in his navy suit jacket, white shirt, tie perfectly nodded.

 Then his camera flipped accidentally. His team saw suit on top, pajama pants on bottom, flannel with coffee cups printed on them. dead silence. Marcus looked down, realized, kept talking. As I was saying, the market positioning for a junior analyst, Sarah, Sandra, suppressed a smile. We can see your I know. Moving on. The meeting continued. No one mentioned it.

Afterward, three people slacked him coffee cup emojis. He ignored them. Later, alone in his apartment, Marcus looked at his reflection. Navy suit jacket, pajama pants. He’d been doing TV appearances like this for 3 weeks. He typed a text to his grandfather. Sorry I missed your birthday. We’ll visit soon. Deleted it.

 Retyped, “Happy belated birthday. Hope you’re well.” Deleted that, too. Sent, “Thinking of you.” No response. Walter didn’t text. Marcus knew that. He sent it anyway. Felt marginally less terrible. He didn’t know that Walter was already sick by then. Didn’t know that soon wasn’t soon enough. Didn’t know that 3 months later he’d be at a funeral.

 Arriving 40 minutes late because of a flight delay. realizing he’d missed the last year of conversations he’d meant to have soon. Didn’t know that the waitress in the back row crying quietly in her diner uniform had spent more time with his grandfather in 12 weeks than he had in 12 years.

 Didn’t know any of it until it was too late to not know. Emma stood outside 417 Greenwood Avenue, Walter’s house. Her house. She still didn’t know how to think about it. Craftsman style blue paint peeling front porch with two rocking chairs. One had a cushion, one didn’t. overgrown garden that was probably beautiful once.

 She’d been here before, many times. When Walter got sick, pneumonia, maybe a small stroke. He’d refused to go to the hospital. She’d come to check on him, brought soup, did laundry, sat with him when he was confused when the stroke made him forget what year it was, who he was talking to. But she’d been a guest then. Knocked before entering, stayed in appropriate rooms, never went upstairs, never opened drawers, touched nothing unless necessary.

 Now she had the key, had ownership. The key still had Walter’s coffee stained keychain attached, a little metal rose, paint rubbed off from years in his pocket. Emma unlocked the door. The house smelled like him. Old books, coffee. That specific laundry soap he bought because it was on sale in 1983, and he just kept buying it.

 The smell hit her stomach first, then her throat. She sat on the arm of the couch and cried. Ugly crying. The kind where you make sounds you didn’t know you could make. Then she got mad at herself for crying. You don’t own grief just because you inherited a house. The house didn’t respond. She stood, walked through.

 Living room, kitchen, small 1960s appliances that somehow still worked. Bathroom, wallpaper with tiny flowers, grout that had seen better decades. Walter’s bedroom. She’d been in here before, checking on him when he couldn’t get out of bed. The bed was made. Hospital corners. He’d been in hospicees last week.

 This bed hadn’t been slept in since. Emma opened the closet. His clothes still there. Cardigans, button-ups, one suit for funerals, he’d said once. Darkly funny. Upstairs. She’d never been upstairs. Three doors. First, bathroom. Very pink. Clearly hadn’t been updated since 1972. Second, Walter’s study. Books, floor to ceiling, old desk, papers everywhere.

She closed the door. Couldn’t deal with that yet. Third door. She opened it expecting storage. Instead, a bedroom, child’s bedroom. Furniture covered in sheets, but clearly kids-sized. Baseball posters on the walls, faded and curling. A model airplane on the dresser gathering dust. Marcus’s room had to be preserved like a museum.

 Walter never changed it. Emma sat on the sheet covered bed. The mattress creaked. How old was this room? 30 years. More. A father keeping his son’s room. A grandfather keeping his grandson’s room. Waiting for visits that became less frequent. Less frequent. Then stopped. She heard a sound downstairs. Footsteps. Emma froze. Someone was in the house.

She grabbed the model airplane, useless as a weapon, but it was all she had, and crept downstairs. A man was in the kitchen going through papers. Marcus, what are you doing here? Emma yelled. He jumped, dropped papers. Jesus, what are you doing here? I the estate paperwork. I need to He held up the papers like evidence.

 What are you doing here? It’s my house. I’m the executive. They stared at each other, both breathing hard, both embarrassed. “You scared me,” Emma said. “You threw an airplane at me.” And she looked down. She had in fact thrown the model airplane. It lay on the floor between them, wings broken. “That was his,” Marcus said quietly. “I know.

 I’m sorry. I thought you were a burglar.” “Yes, breaking into a house I have legal access to.” “I didn’t know you had legal access.” Silence. The house settled around them, creaking. I should have called, Marcus said. You should have. I thought you’d be at work. I took the day off. Emma set down her purse.

 What are you doing with those papers? Estate logistics, tax documents, utility transfers, HOA paperwork. Uh, he set them on the counter, making sure everything’s in order for the transfer. Uh, you could have mailed them. I could have, but you’re here. But I’m here. Emma leaned against the counter. Why? Marcus looked around the kitchen at the old appliances.

 The calendar on the wall still showing March, 3 months outdated. The coffee maker that was probably older than both of them. Because I didn’t come when it mattered, he said finally. So, I’m coming now, even though it doesn’t matter anymore. The words landed wrong, like he was confessing something he meant to keep to himself. The house made a sound. Deep groaning.

The pipes probably. What was that? Marcus asked. Your inheritance. He almost smiled. That bad? The hot water heater sounds like a dying whale. The roof leaks in the guest bathroom. There’s a raccoon situation in the attic I’m trying not to think about. Sounds expensive. It is. Emma crossed her arms. I can’t afford this.

 So, sell it. Walter left it to me, not to a real estate developer. Then what are you going to do? I don’t know. The volume surprised both of them. She lowered her voice. I don’t know. Oh, I just She stopped, started over. Your grandfather died 3 weeks ago, and you’re talking like this is a corporate merger. I’m trying to help.

 I didn’t ask for help. I asked for my friend back. You can’t give me that. Silence. Longer this time. Marcus picked up the papers. I should go. Yeah. Emma didn’t move. You should. He walked to the door, stopped. For what it’s worth, I’m glad he had you at the end. He shouldn’t have needed me. He should have had you. I know.

 Marcus left. The door closed softly. Emma stood in Walter’s kitchen, her kitchen, and didn’t move for a full minute. Then she sat in Walter’s chair, the one at the head of the table, the one she’d never sat in before, even when doing his laundry, making his meals, caring for him. It felt wrong. It felt right. She didn’t know which feeling to trust.

 3 days later, Marcus walked into Rosy’s diner. Emma was working. Saw him through the window before he entered. Considered hiding in the back, didn’t. He sat at booth 7, not booth three. Walter’s booth. She appreciated that. Deb appeared at Emma’s elbow. That suit guy. I know. The grandson. Yes, Deb. He’s cute. Um, Deb, I swear.

 In a stressed out, probably hasn’t slept in three days kind of way. That’s your type, not mine. Everyone’s my type, honey. That’s why I’ve been married three times. Emma grabbed a coffee pot, Paty, the middle one, and approached his table. Waited 15 seconds. 20. He read the menu like it was a legal contract. Finally. What do you want? He looked up.

Coffee. That’s it. Whatever’s fastest. Emma brought him oatmeal. Plain. No fruit. Just oatmeal. He stared at it. I didn’t order this. You ordered whatever’s fastest. Congratulations. You got exactly what you asked for. She walked away. Heard Deb laughing behind the counter. Marcus ate the oatmeal. All of it.

 Left a 20 for a $6 meal. The next morning, he came back. 7:13 a.m. Booth 7. Emma brought coffee without asking. What’ll it be today? Whatever’s fastest again. Coffee is fine. Just coffee. Just coffee. Two sugars. No cream. Emma stopped. That was Walter’s order. Marcus knew. She could see it in his face. She brought two sugar packets.

 He opened them carefully, poured them in, stirred exactly seven times. Did he teach you that? Emma asked. Teach me what? The seven stirs. Marcus looked at his spoon. I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember. He read an actual newspaper. Bought that morning. Fresh. The third morning, Deb cornered Emma. You’ve got yourself a new regular. Don’t.

 Uh, little younger than the last one. Deb, I’m just saying. Well, don’t. But Marcus kept coming. Every morning, 7:13 exactly. She started having his coffee ready. By day six, he looked up when she poured. You’re good at this. Scary good or impressive good? He paused. realized she was repeating what she’d said to Walter both.

 They didn’t talk much beyond that, but he stayed until 8:47, exactly when Walter used to leave. Emma didn’t mention it. Neither did he. Day nine, she sat down across from him. Technically against policy. Technically, she was the only one who cared. Why are you here? Coffee’s good. Uh, coffee is mediocre at best.

 Then for the company, you don’t talk to me. I’m talking now. Emma leaned back. You trying to make peace with your guilt by hanging out at a diner? Maybe. He sat down his cup. Is it working? No. That’s what I thought. They sat in silence. Comfortable? No, but not hostile. The house, Marcus said. If you need help with repairs, I don’t need your money.

 I wasn’t offering money. I was offering help. Uh, same thing. It’s not, Emma stood. Table four needs a refill. She walked away. Felt him watching. didn’t turn around. But the next morning, she brought him coffee and asked, “Can you actually fix things? Or is this a theoretical offer? I can hold a flashlight and follow directions.

” “That’s not fixing things. It’s adjacent to fixing things.” She almost smiled. The hot water heater makes a sound like a dying whale. That’s specific. Um, come see for yourself. That Saturday, Marcus showed up at 47 Greenwood. jeans. Expensive jeans, but still jeans. T-shirt carrying a toolbox that looked brand new.

 Did you buy that today? Emma asked. Last night. The tags are still on it. He looked down. Removed the tags. Embarrassed. The basement was unfinished. Concrete floors, low ceilings, spiderw webs in corners. Emma pretended not to see. The hot water heater stood in the corner, ancient and rumbling. Marcus stared at it. That’s old. No kidding. Like impressively old.

Then can you fix it? I can Google how to fix water heaters and hope for the best. They Googled. It wasn’t helpful. Try hitting it, Emma suggested. What? Hit it. Sometimes that works with the coffee makers. Marcus hit the water heater. Nothing changed. Harder. He hit it harder. The rumbling got louder. Okay, stop. They stared at it.

The heater rumbled. They rumbled back in their own way, laughing, surprised at themselves. We made it worse, Marcus said. way worse. Should it do that? Absolutely not. They both laughed again, then awkward silence, then more laughing because the silence was awkward. I’ll call a plumber, Emma said. That’s probably smart.

Upstairs, Emma made coffee. Real coffee, not diner coffee. She handed him a mug. So, what do you actually do? She asked. Besides fail at home repair, business development, tech sector, um, that means nothing to me. It means I sit in meetings and tell people why their ideas will or won’t make money. Sounds terrible.

 Sometimes it is. He sipped coffee. What about you? Always been a waitress. 6 years. Uh before that college, sort of. I left after 2 years. Why? My mom got sick, medical bills. I dropped out to work. Planned to go back. That was six years ago. I’m sorry. Don’t be. She’s fine now. Lives with my aunt in Spokane. We talk once a month. I’m bad at calling.

Me, too. They sat at Walter’s table. The kitchen smelled like old wood and coffee. He really loved this place, Emma said. Your grandfather. I barely remember it. I visited once when I was a kid, maybe 10. I remember the stairs creaking. And he had a garden. Tomatoes still there. Barely. I’ve been trying to keep it alive. Why? Because he liked it.

I Marcus sat down his mug. You barely knew him. I knew him every day for 3 months. How often did you see him this year? The words were harsh. True. She didn’t apologize. Marcus stood. I should go. You keep saying that because I keep not knowing how to talk to you. Then why do you keep coming back? He looked at her. Really looked.

 Because I don’t know how to talk to anyone anymore. At least with you. I’m not pretending. He left. Emma sat at the table alone. Deb texted, “How’d it go with mister toolbox?” Emma typed. We broke the water heater worse. Deb, that’s basically flirting. Emma, that’s basically property damage. Deb, tomato, tomato. Emma didn’t respond.

 Just sat in Walter’s kitchen drinking coffee that wasn’t as good as Walter made it. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. This is Marcus. Got your number from the estate paperwork. I know a good plumber. Can send his info if you want. Emma typed. That would help. Thanks. Pause. Typing indicator.

 Also, sorry for being useless with the water heater. Emma smiled despite herself. You held the flashlight wrong, too. I’ll work on that. Marcus’ father called on a Tuesday morning. The house situation. Has it been resolved? Marcus paused mid email. It’s being handled. What does that mean? It means the title’s been transferred and the paperwork is filed.

 Uh, and the woman, the waitress, her name is Emma. Is she planning to sell? I don’t think so. Silence. Loaded silence. His father was good at those. Marcus. Dad. I need to finish this report. Um, you’re spending a lot of time there. Where? That neighborhood. That diner. I’m handling estate logistics. Are you? The call ended.

 Marcus stared at his phone. His assistant knocked on his office door. He had an actual office now. Glass Walls, City View. The 2:00 is here. Give me 5 minutes. He opened his calendar. Everyday 7 a.m. Rosy’s Diner. He’d been adding it for 2 weeks now, blocking the time officially, making it real.

 His assistant had started calling it the coffee meeting. He didn’t correct her at the diner. Deb pulled Emma aside during lunch rush. Honey, what’s happening with suit guy? Nothing. And he’s here every day. He likes the coffee. He likes you. He likes the coffee. Uh, Emma. Deb, I have four tables waiting. You’re smiling different. I’m not smiling. Exactly.

 You used to fake it for customers. Now you just forget to. That’s when I know something’s up. Uh, Emma ignored her. brought Marcus his third coffee refill. “You don’t have to keep coming,” she said. “I know. So why do you? Honestly, I don’t know anymore. That’s a terrible reason.” “It’s the only one I have.” Emma sat down, not across from him, next to him, close enough to see the spreadsheet on his laptop. Numbers.

 Lots of numbers. What is that? Quarterly projections. Looks boring. It is. Um then why are you doing it here? Marcus closed the laptop. Because here I can stop and remember I’m a person, not just a function. Heavy. Sorry. Don’t be just weird. I know. They sat. The diner hummed around them. Regulars noise life. Walter always wanted this place full of people. Emma said the house.

 I mean, he’d talk about having dinners, community stuff. He never did it. Uh, why not? I think he was waiting for family. For you, maybe for people to come back. Marcus flinched. That’s true. You know it’s true. Yeah. Emma turned her coffee cup. What if we did it? Did what? Made the house what he wanted.

 A community space for elders like Walter. Like a senior center. Sort of, but more personal like the diner where people know your name, your order, your story. Marcus looked at her. That’s a good idea. Uh, don’t sound so surprised. I’m not. I’m just He stopped, started over. We? What? You said we. We could do it. I meant like theoretical wei. Royal wei.

Did you? Emma stood. I have to go check on table 9. Emma, just think about it. She walked away, felt his eyes on her back, didn’t turn around. Two weeks later, they invited neighbors to discuss the idea. 12 people showed up. Marcus had made a presentation, actual slides, printed handouts. Emma gave him a look.

Really? He shrugged. I prepared. They sat in Walter’s living room, now called the potential community space. Emma explained the vision. Marcus explained logistics. People asked questions. Mrs. Henderson, 72, lived three houses down. Would there be activities? Coffee? Certainly, Emma said. Maybe game days, movie afternoons, book club. Mr.

 Park, 68, widowerower. Who’s funding this? Marcus started to answer. Emma kicked his shin lightly under the table. We’re figuring that out. This is just to see if there’s interest. There was interest. Everyone volunteered. Mrs. Henderson offered to coordinate activities. Mr. Park said he’d handle the garden. Someone else offered to bring coffee donations.

 Deb, who’d insisted on coming after everyone left, Emma and Marcus cleaned up. That went well, he said. Too well. How is that a problem? Because now it’s real. We have to actually do this. E, you’re the one who suggested it. I suggested the idea. You made it a plan. Plans have timelines. Accountability, budgets. You say that like it’s bad.

It’s scary. Why? Emma sat on the couch. Because if we do this, we’ll be working together for months, maybe years. And I don’t. She stopped. Don’t what? I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Marcus sat next to her. Not close, but closer than before. Me neither. No. So, why are we doing this? Because it’s what he would have wanted.

 Um, is it? Or is it what we want and we’re using him as an excuse? The question hung there. Marcus stood, started gathering papers. I should don’t say you should go. And I was going to say I should help you wash these dishes. Oh. They washed dishes. Didn’t talk. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either.

 It was something else. Something they didn’t have a word for yet. Emma’s phone buzzed. Text from Deb. How’d the meeting go? Emma, good. Too good. Deb, that’s code for I’m scared of my feelings. Emma, that’s code for mind your own business. Deb can’t. Your business is way more interesting than mine. Marcus dried the last dish.

Everything okay? Deb’s texting about how she thinks I have feelings. Uh, do you? Emma turned off her phone. I’m too tired for this conversation. That’s not a no. It’s not a yes either. Fair. They stood in the kitchen. The house settled around them, creaking, old, full of memories that weren’t theirs yet, but might be someday.

 You know this is going to be a disaster, right? Emma said. Probably. Uh, and you’re still in. Are you? Neither answered directly. Both smiled. Neither admitted they weren’t talking about the community center anymore. The contractor’s quote arrived via email. Community center renovations, $47,000. Emma stared at her phone. Refreshed. The number didn’t change.

 Marcus called 30 seconds later. Did you see? I saw. Okay. So, don’t don’t what? Don’t offer to pay for it. I was going to say we should discuss options. Uh options where you pay for it. Silence. Marcus. Why can’t I help? Because then it’s your project. Not Walters, not ours. Just another thing you threw money at to feel less guilty.

That’s not fair, isn’t it? More silence. Longer. I’ll figure it out, Emma said. Don’t worry about it. Uh, how are you going to She hung up. Deb found her in the diner storage room an hour later, crying into a box of napkins. Honey, I’m fine. You’re crying into Rosy’s finest tly. I’m fine.

 Deb sat down on a crate of ketchup. Talk to me. And $47,000. That’s how much it costs to honor a dead man’s wishes. Can the house/suit guy help? That’s not the point. kind of sounds like the point. Uh, if he pays, then it’s his. He’ll make decisions. It’ll become another business project. And Walter wanted. Emma stopped, wiped her eyes.

 It doesn’t matter what Walter wanted. I can’t afford to do it. Uh, what if you both? No, Emma. I said no. Deb left her alone. Emma cried into napkins for another 10 minutes, then went back to work. Marcus sat in his apartment that night. Googled how to support someone without solving their problems. Results. therapy articles, relationship advice, books he’d never read.

 He closed his laptop, felt pathetic. His father called, “How’s the house situation?” “Complicated. Sell it. Move on. It’s not that simple. Everything is that simple if you make it simple.” Marcus hung up. Called back 5 minutes later to apologize. His father had already moved on to talking about market trends. Emma picked up double shifts, six days straight, morning and evening. Her feet hurt, her back hurt.

Deb kept shooting her concerned looks. You’re going to burn out, Deb said. I’m fine. Uh, you’re drinking coffee from yesterday. It’s fine, Emma. What? You’re not fine. Emma set down the pot. $47,000. At this rate, I’ll have it saved in 4 years if I don’t eat or pay rent or breathe. Let him help. I can’t.

 Why? Because Emma stopped. The real reason was complicated. Because if I need him, then this stops being about Walter and starts being about us. And I can’t. I don’t want. She stopped again. Don’t want what? I don’t want to need him. Deb hugged her. Full hug. Emma cried into her shoulder. She was crying a lot lately. She hated it. Chipu.

 You’re allowed to need people, honey. I’ve spent six years not needing anyone. That’s not living. That’s just not dying. Emma pulled away. Table six needs their check. She delivered the check. smiled at customers, went through motions. Two weeks of silence. Marcus kept coming to the diner. She kept serving him.

 They didn’t talk beyond coffee. Yes. Anything else? No. On the community center plan sat in Walter’s house, untouched. People kept asking, “When are we starting?” Emma said, “Soon.” Soon meant when I figure out how to do this without him. Soon meant maybe never. Then she found out. Mrs. Henderson mentioned it casually. That’s so generous of Marcus.

 the grant he’s applying for. Emma froze. What grant? For the community center. He’s been calling organizations. I saw him at the library researching. Such a sweet boy. Emma thanked her. Walked to Walter’s house. Her house. Marcus was there. Of course he was. In the study on his laptop. What are you doing? She asked. Grant applications.

 There’s a community development fund that I told you not to. You told me not to pay for it. I’m not paying. I’m finding other people to pay behind my back. I didn’t think that’s the problem. You didn’t think. You just decided. Emma, you can’t just fix me like I’m another one of your projects. I’m not trying to fix you.

 Then what are you trying to do? I’m trying to keep you from destroying yourself because you’re too stubborn to accept help. The words echoed in the empty house, both of them breathing hard, both surprised by the volume, the honesty. I need to go, Emma said. Emma. She left, walked home, didn’t cry until she was inside her apartment.

 She was getting good at that, waiting until she was alone. Marcus stopped coming to the diner. Days passed, then a week, then two. Deb finally asked, “Where’s suit guy?” I don’t know. Did something happen? We had a fight. Uh, about He tried to help. I told him to stop. He didn’t. Uh, so he was being nice and you punished him for it.

 It’s more complicated than that. Is it? Emma didn’t answer. The community center opening happened anyway. Marcus sent contractors. Emma couldn’t stop them. Legally, they had permission. He was executive. The work got done. The space transformed. Opening day. People showed up. Mrs. Henderson brought cookies. Mister Park showed off the garden.

Coffee brewed. Good coffee. Not great, but good. Emma was there. Marcus was there. They avoided each other. Everyone noticed. Nobody mentioned it. During the ribbon cutting, literal ribbon, Mrs. Mrs. Henderson insisted. They stood on opposite sides. After, Mrs. Henderson cornered Emma. You two are idiots.

 I know, so fix it. I don’t know how. And at the same time, Mr. Park cornered Marcus. You look miserable. I’m fine. You’re a terrible liar. Marcus didn’t respond. 3 days after opening, Emma was restocking supplies at Walter’s Corner. That’s what they were calling it now, Walter’s Corner. Harold was there. The veteran from their volunteer days.

Where’s the tall fellow? Who? Marcus, haven’t seen him in a week. He’s busy. Shame. He was getting good at listening. Tell him I’ve got a new story about Normandy when he comes back. Emma nodded, continued restocking, then stopped, realized Marcus had been good at it, at listening, at showing up, not because of money, because he’d actually learned from Walter, from her, from the elderly people who just wanted someone to see them.

 She’d been so focused on being angry about how he helped, she’d forgotten he was helping. actually changing. Actually trying. She pulled out her phone, typed Harold has a new story for you about Normandy. Deleted it, retyped. Harold misses you. Sent it before she could overthink. Typing indicator appeared. Stayed for 2 minutes. Finally. I miss it, too.

 Emma stared at the message. Three words. They meant everything. She typed. Can we talk? When? Now. I’ll be there in 20. 23 minutes later. Seattle traffic. Marcus walked into Walter’s corner. Emma was sitting at one of the new tables. Two cups of coffee waiting. He sat down. I’m sorry, they said simultaneously, almost smiled, then stopped.

 “You first?” Emma said. “No, you.” “Well, Marcus, Emma,” they both stopped. “Okay,” Emma took a breath. “I was wrong. You were trying to help and I I made it about control, about pride, about She stopped, started over. I was scared.” Of what? Of needing you. I’ve spent six years not needing anyone.

 Then you showed up and suddenly I she stopped couldn’t finish. You what? I forgot how to be alone and that’s terrifying. Marcus wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. I’m sorry too for overstepping for trying to solve everything instead of just being here. Um, what’s the difference? Help has an ending. Being here doesn’t. Emma looked at him.

 Did you just quote me from two weeks ago? Maybe. That’s annoyingly thoughtful. I’ve been working on that. They sat in silence. The community center hummed around them. Elders talking, laughing, living. I don’t know how to do this, Emma said finally. Do what? Care about someone without feeling like I owe them? Uh, and I don’t know how to care about someone without trying to fix everything for them.

 So, we’re both kind of disasters. Kind of. Is that enough? I don’t know. Is it? Neither had an answer. Both took that as permission to keep trying. The weeks after weren’t perfect. Mark is still overreached sometimes. Emma still pushed back. He tried to hire a professional event coordinator. She said no.

 He hired one anyway, just for consultation, he claimed. She was furious for 3 days. She refused to discuss long-term funding, insisting they could figure it out as we go. And as he created a 5-year budget plan, she called it aggressive financial optimism. They fought, not screaming fights, quiet fights, the kind where you say true things that hurt precisely because they’re true.

 But they showed up every day to Walter’s corner to each other. One month in, Marcus was at his office when his assistant knocked. Your two o’clock is here. Cancel it. Sir, cancel all my afternoon meetings. All of them? Yes. Uh, he’d been thinking about this for weeks. Opened his email, draft saved, resignation from director position, transition to part-time consultant role.

 He’d written it five times, deleted it five times. His father would disapprove. His team would be confused. He was good at this job, but he thought about Walter. About learning too late that success and happiness aren’t the same thing. About the elderly people at Walter’s corner who lit up when he remembered their names, their stories, their coffee orders.

 About Emma, who looked at him like he was a person, not a function. He sent the email. Effective in 30 days. His hand shook, not from fear, from relief. The next morning, he showed up at Rosy’s Diner early, 6:50 a.m. Emma was surprised. Don’t you have work? I’m making different choices. Meaning, I’m going part-time consultant basis.

 And she sat down the coffee pot. You quit. I’m transitioning because of me. For me. He paused. Maybe a little because of you. That’s a lot of pressure. Is it? Little bit. He smiled. Ask me in a month if I regret it. What if you do? Then I’ll have regretted it while living instead of succeeding while dying.

 I’ll take those odds. Emma poured his coffee. Two sugars, no cream. You know it. Uh she sat down across from him. You know this doesn’t fix everything, right? I know. Uh we’re still going to fight. I’m still going to push you away when I’m scared. You’re still going to try to solve things instead of sitting with them. I know that, too.

 Uh and you’re okay with that? No, but I’m okay trying anyway. Emma smiled. Actually smiled. That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me. progress maybe. They sat in comfortable silence. Deb walked by, saw them, grinned obnoxiously. Emma ignored her. So what now? Marcus asked. Now you drink your coffee. I finish my shift.

Tonight we have volunteer night at Walter’s Corner. Harold’s telling his Normandy story. All of them. He has 17. We’re on number four. I’ll be there. I know you will. 3 months became 6 months. They fell into rhythm. He came to the diner mornings. She went to Walter’s corner evenings, sometimes together, sometimes separately.

 He learned her quirks. She got quiet when overwhelmed. Ordered Chinese food when stressed, reorganized kitchen cabinets when angry. She learned his. He worked late when avoiding feelings. Wore the pajama pants when working from home. Texted in complete sentences with punctuation. They had a first real date. She insisted on a taco truck over his fancy restaurant suggestion.

 They had their first kiss in Walter’s kitchen after successfully badly fixing the garbage disposal together. They didn’t move in together. Didn’t rush, took it slow. One evening after Walter’s corner closed, they sat in the now familiar living room. Your dad called me, Emma said. Marcus looked up from his laptop. What? He wanted to know about the waitress situation. I’m sorry.

 I didn’t know he’d I told him I’m not a situation. I’m a person who happens to wait tables and that you’re learning to see the difference. What did he say? He hung up. Sounds about right. Uh Emma leaned against him. Are we okay? Your family doesn’t approve. My mother thinks I’m dating above my station. Deb keeps asking when we’re getting married.

 Are we getting married? I just brought it up because Deb Wait, what? You said Deb keeps asking. I’m asking what you think. I think Emma sat up. I think you just changed the conversation. I did. Unfair. Is it little bit? I Marcus closed his laptop. I don’t know where this goes. Marriage, maybe. Kids, maybe.

 Growing old in this house while Walter’s corner fills with other people’s grandparents, maybe. But I know I want to figure it out with you. That’s really sappy. I know. I kind of hate how much I liked it. That’s kind of the point. Emma kissed him soft, brief, then pulled back. We’re still going to drive each other crazy.

Probably. I’m still going to be stubborn about accepting help. I’m still going to offer it anyway. And you’re still going to try to fix things when I just need you to listen. I’m working on that. I know. Emma stood. Come on. Harold’s daughter is dropping off his WW2 photos tomorrow. We need to clear wall space. It’s 11 p.m.

 So So that can wait until tomorrow. We’re here now. Marcus stood, followed her to the wall. They spent an hour moving furniture, measuring, planning. Around midnight, Emma stepped back. This is good, right? What we’re doing here with the photos, with everything. Marcus looked around. The house that was Walters, that was Emma’s.

 That was becoming theirs. Yeah, this is good. Even though it’s hard, especially because it’s hard. They finished around 1:00 a.m. Locked up. Walked to their separate cars. Not ready to share keys yet, but getting there. See you tomorrow, Emma asked. 7:13 a.m. Booth 7. What if I bring you oatmeal again? Then I’ll eat it and pretend I ordered it.

She laughed. You’re getting better at this. At what? Being a person I want to keep around. That’s the goal. They kissed goodbye. Drove home separately. Texted when they got home. Home safe. Same. See you tomorrow. Coffeey’s on me. It’s always on you. You work there. Fair point. Coffeey’s on Rosie. Better.

 Three months later, Emma was working morning shift when Marcus walked in at 7:13 a.m. Morning, she said, already pouring his coffee. Morning. Odd. He sat at booth 7. It was unofficially his now. The usual. Unless you’re feeling creative with oatmeal again. That was one time. He It was a formative experience.

 Emma brought him eggs, toast, bacon. Better much. and they’d fallen into this easy conversation, inside jokes, the kind of comfort that takes time to build. Deb walked by with coffee pot. “You two are disgustingly cute.” “We’re literally just eating breakfast,” Emma said. “Exactly disgusting.” Amarcus smiled into his newspaper.

 Real newspaper, still bought fresh every morning. He’d never switched to Walter’s vintage approach. “How’s the corner?” he asked. “Good. May wants to start a knitting group. Harold’s on story number nine. Mr. Parks tomatoes are coming in. Uh, that’s good. Yeah. Emma sat down. She did this now during slow moments. We got a grant. Small one.

3,000 for programming. That’s great. Applied two months ago. Just heard back. See, good things happen when you let me help. You didn’t help with this one. Wait, really? Really? I did it myself. Marcus looked at her. Genuine pride. That’s amazing. Uh, don’t sound so surprised. I’m not. I’m just He stopped, started over. I’m proud of you.

 That’s Sappy again. You like Sappy? I really don’t. You do. Emma stood. Table four needs their check, but she was smiling. That evening, Walter’s corner was full. 23 people, playing cards, drinking coffee, talking. The kind of gentle noise that felt like home. Emma was restocking cookies when she felt someone watching.

 Marcus across the room, not working, not organizing, just watching, seeing. She walked over. What? Nothing. Just looking at this. All of it. He gestured to the room. Harold telling stories. May teaching knitting. Mr. Park showing off his tomatoes. People who were lonely and now aren’t. We did good, huh? You did good. I just helped.

 Well, that’s growth right there. I’m trying. They stood together, watched the community they’d built. The space that honored Walter by being exactly what he’d wanted. Full of people, full of life, full of seeing and being seen. Harold waved from across the room. Marcus, got a story for you. Normandy, June 7th.

 You got 5 minutes? I’ve got as long as you need. Marcus walked over, sat, listened. Emma watched him, really listening, not waiting to talk, not fixing anything, just being there. May approached Emma. How’s your boyfriend? He’s good. You two thinking about the future? We’re thinking about today. That’s enough for now. Smart girl. Emma smiled. Went back to restocking.

 The evening continued. Coffee, conversation, community. Around 8:00 p.m., people started leaving. Goodbyes. Promises to return tomorrow. Thank yous for the space. By 8:30, just Emma and Marcus remained. Want help cleaning up? He asked. That’s literally always your question. That’s because I literally always want to help.

 They cleaned, washed coffee cups, stacked chairs, small small tasks that felt like meditation. You know, Emma said, “Your grandfather would have loved this. Seeing it full seeing you here.” I know you miss him. Every day different now, though. How? Less guilt, more gratitude. I can’t change what happened, but I can honor what he taught me.

 What did he teach you? Marcus thought about it. That showing up matters more than solving. That people aren’t projects. That coffee tastes better when you take time to actually drink it. Those are good lessons. He had a good teacher. Me? You? Emma threw a dish towel at him. Stop being sweet. It’s unnerving. Can’t. You’ve ruined me.

 They finished cleaning, locked up, stood on the porch. You know we’re doing this again tomorrow, right? Emma said. I’m counting on it. And in the day after. And the day after that. That doesn’t scare you? Terrifies me. But I like being terrified with you better than being comfortable alone. Uh, okay.

 That one was actually too sappy. Too much. Way too much. I’ll dial it back. Please. They walked to their cars, still separate, still taking it slow. The Seattle evening was cool, damp, typical. See you tomorrow? Emma asked. 7:13 a.m. Booth 7. What if you bring me oatmeal again? Marcus, I swear to God. He kissed her, cut off her threat.

 She kissed back, smiling against his mouth. Okay, he asked when they separated. Better than oatmeal. A lowbar. You said it. They said good night, drove home, texted when they arrived. Home. Harold’s story about the field medic was incredible, right? 17 more to go. Looking forward to all of them. Sap, you love it. Emma stared at her phone, typed. Yeah, I really do.

Deleted it. retyped maybe a little. Deleted that, too. Finally sent, “See you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow. One morning at a time.” The next morning, Emma woke at 5:47 a.m. No alarm, just habit. She looked at her reflection while brushing her teeth. “We doing this again.” The reflection didn’t answer, but Emma smiled anyway because today she wasn’t asking if she could survive it.

 She was asking if she was excited for it. The answer was yes. She made coffee, watered Dorothy and Blanch. Morning ladies. Another day, but the good kind. The 44 bus came at 6:12. She caught it, stood pressed against familiar strangers. Didn’t mind. Rosy’s diner opened at 6:30. She unlocked the door, flipped the sign. Deb arrived at 6:28.

Morning, sunshine. Morning nightmare. Uh, the coffee pot started brewing. Lucille Paty Loretta. The morning chorus. At 7:13 a.m. Exactly. Marcus walked in. Emma had his coffee ready. He sat at booth 7, opened his newspaper, looked up at her, and smiled. Morning. Morning. And just like that, like every morning, it began again.

 The coffee, the diner, the community center waiting for them tonight, the rhythm they’d built, the life they were living, one morning at a time. Some things don’t need perfect endings. They just need to be real enough to last. A small thought to sit with. This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

There’s something about routine that looks like prison until you realize it’s actually freedom. Emma serving coffee at the same diner for 6 years wasn’t failure. It was consistency. Marcus sitting in the same booth every morning wasn’t pathetic. It was choosing to show up. Walter drinking coffee at 7:13 a.m.

for 3 months wasn’t sad. It was being seen. We spend a lot of energy running from routine, chasing big moments, waiting for life to start. When the dramatic thing happens, the perfect person arrives, the house becomes ours the right way. But life is mostly Tuesday mornings, coffee that’s good enough, people who show up imperfectly, houses that need repair, communities that build slowly, the inheritance wasn’t the house.

 It was the reminder that mattering to someone, even just one person, is everything. That being seen is worth more than being saved. That showing up daily is more valuable than grand gestures. Marcus didn’t heal Emma. Emma didn’t fix Marcus. They both just decided that being imperfectly present was better than being perfectly absent.

Walter’s Corner isn’t magical. It’s just a house where people remember your name and how you take your coffee. Where loneliness gets interrupted by terrible jokes and heralds 17 Normandy stories. Where see you tomorrow means something. Maybe that’s all any of us need. Not rescue, not transformation, just someone who keeps showing up, who makes coffee the way we like it.

 Who holds flashlights wrong but tries anyway. Love stories don’t always look like love stories. Sometimes they look like shared custody of a dying water heater. Like learning that help and control aren’t the same thing. Like realizing you can need someone without owing them. Like booth 7 at 7:13 a.m. every single morning until it stops being routine and starts being home.

 The rest marriage, kids, growing old together might happen or might not. But today they have coffee and community and the choice to keep choosing each other one morning at a time. That’s enough.