I turned the burner on low and stirred the soup in a small metal pot, watching the steam rise. Through the door, I could see Carl watching me, his head resting against the back of his chair.
“Do you have family in Cincinnati?” I asked, raising my voice slightly so he could hear me over the stove.
“No,” Carl said. “I am quite alone.”
The word alone hummed in the small kitchen, matching the quiet of my own apartment since my mother passed away. I poured the hot soup into a ceramic bowl and carried it into the living room.
“Thank you, Megan,” he said, taking the spoon with a steady hand. “You have a very quiet way of moving.”
“My mother taught me that,” I said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “She said a quiet house is a peaceful house.”
Carl stopped his spoon for a second, looking down at the soup as if he were remembering something from a long time ago.
“Your mother was a wise woman,” he said.
“She was,” I said, though I wondered how he could speak of her with such certainty when we had only just met.
We sat in silence while he ate, the only sound being the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He did not ask me about my job, and he did not volunteer any details about his illness.
When he finished, he set the bowl on the small table beside his chair. His hand lingered on the wood, flat and still.
“Will you return on Thursday?” he asked.
“I will,” I said, rising to gather the empty bowl. “I promised three days a week.”
“I am grateful,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “More than you know.”
I washed the bowl in the quiet kitchen, dried it with a clean towel, and placed it back in the cupboard. The small green tea cup remained by the sink, untouched.
I walked back to the living room to say goodbye, but Carl had already closed his eyes, his breathing slow and shallow. I stepped quietly down the hallway and let myself out into the evening.
