I am ninety-one years old, and for a long time, I believed I had already died.

I just hadn’t had the courtesy to lie down yet.My husband passed away decades ago, long enough that the sound of his laughter has softened at the edges, as an old photograph left too long in the sun. At first, memories arrived uninvited. Then there were fewer. Now, most days, it feels like he lived in another lifetime altogether.

My children grew up, moved away, married, and had children of their own. They promised they would visit. At first, they did. Then the visits turned into phone calls. The phone calls became texts. Eventually, even those stopped.No one was cruel. That is the hardest part. Life simply kept moving forward without me.

Birthdays became me, a single cupcake from the grocery store, and whatever happened to be playing on television. Holidays meant frozen dinners eaten on trays and reruns I had already seen a hundred times. Most days passed in silence, broken only by the ticking of the hallway clock and the old house creaking, as if it were trying to speak when no one else would.That kind of loneliness makes you feel invisible, like the world could walk straight through you and never notice.

No one ever called for the boy next door.

Then Milo moved in.He was twelve, tall in that awkward, unfinished way boys get at that age, all elbows and knees. He wore his cap backward and carried a skateboard everywhere, like it was an extension of his body. Every afternoon, I watched him on the sidewalk practicing tricks, falling, swearing under his breath, and getting back up again.

Other children on the street were called inside at dinnertime.

“Mason! Inside!”