That Christmas Eve, three years after her passing, I was walking home from the grocery store with bags cutting into my fingers. Snow drifted down gently, the kind that looks beautiful from a window but bites when it hits your skin. I was already cold, already tired, already counting the steps to my front door.
She was sitting near a closed storefront, shoulders hunched, coat far too thin for the night. Her hair was unkempt, her hands red and trembling—but it was her eyes that stopped me.
They were Eleanor’s eyes.
Not in color or shape, but in expression. The same quiet dignity. The same sadness that didn’t beg, didn’t demand—just existed.
She looked to be around forty. Life had clearly not been kind to her.
I don’t remember deciding anything. My body moved before my mind caught up.
I set my bags down and asked if she was hungry.
She nodded, hesitant, like she didn’t trust the kindness yet.
“No,” she whispered at first. “I can’t—”
“You can,” I said. “Please.”
Her hands shook as she held the coat closed. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she whispered thank you again and again. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just like someone who wasn’t used to being seen.
