He had lived next door for as long as I could remember.
Quiet. Polite. A little distant, but never unfriendly. The kind of neighbor who waved from his porch, fixed things without being asked, and always seemed to be watching the world with more attention than most.
As a child, I thought he was just… lonely.
As an adult, I thought I understood him.
I was wrong.
His funeral was simple.
A handful of neighbors. A quiet service. No dramatic speeches, no long lines of mourners. Just a life that had passed, acknowledged briefly before everyone returned to their routines.
I stood there with Richie, hands folded, offering the same polite sadness everyone else did.
I didn’t cry.
Why would I?
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