Tonight, on my way home with a box of pizza, I passed by a small cemetery. Under the dim streetlights, I saw an elderly man sitting quietly by a grave. No flowers, no candles—just him and a cold, silent headstone.I don’t know why, but something in me told me to stop. Maybe it was the way he sat—so still, so broken. Maybe because I, too, have known loss.I walked over slowly and asked gently:“Can I give you a hug?”He looked up, tired eyes meeting mine.He nodded.I bent down and hugged him like I would hug my own father.After a moment of silence, he whispered:“I just buried my wife last week. She was everything to me. We were together for over 40 years… and now I don’t know how to go on.”My heart tightened in my chest.“I come here every evening,” he continued. “I tell her about my day, the weather, what I ate… I ask if she misses me. But she never answers.”
