That was the Sunday he brought up Marcus again, the nephew who only called when his car, his rent, or some new scheme required a small loan.
“Marcus came by last month,” Ezra said, stirring his coffee in slow circles. “Asked me what I was planning to do with the house.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“I told him I was planning to keep living in it.”
He smiled when he said it, but the smile never reached his eyes. I let the subject rest.
I left that afternoon thinking I should bring Claire over and properly introduce her. Ezra would have liked that, but I never got the chance.
—
The porch light was the first thing I noticed.
It was the next Sunday, a bright October morning, and my neighbor’s porch light was still on at 9 a.m. Ezra never left it burning after sunrise. He was particular about things like that, those small habits of a man who had lived alone for too long.
I stood in my driveway with the newspaper in my hand, staring at that yellow bulb glowing against the daylight. Something felt wrong, but I told myself he had probably just forgotten and that I would mention it when I brought the groceries over.
I went back inside to finish my coffee and read the headlines, but I could not focus.
—
By noon, an ambulance was parked in front of Ezra’s house. When I stepped outside, a neighbor from across the street told me what I already knew. Ezra had died in his sleep. Peacefully, they said. He was 84 years old, and I was 40.
I stood on his lawn for a long time after everyone had gone, looking at the porch light someone had finally turned off. Claire found me there an hour later and said nothing. She only took my hand.
The funeral was smaller than I had expected. Much smaller.
A few distant acquaintances stood near the back, a tired pastor read from a worn book, and I kept thinking that Ezra had deserved a room filled with more people than that.
Across the aisle, one man stood out. He wore a sharp dark suit and kept checking his phone, his thumb moving across the screen as if the service were interrupting something important.
When the service ended, I was about to leave, but the man came straight toward me.
“You must be the grocery guy,” he said, offering a hand that felt more like a transaction than a greeting. “I’m Marcus, Ezra’s nephew.”
“Anthony,” I replied. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He gave me a thin smile.
“Sure. Over a decade of Sunday visits, huh? That’s a lot of free time to invest in an old man.”
I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my tone steady.
“He was my friend.”
“Right,” Marcus looked past me toward the casket. “Well, friend or not, the house is going on the market fast. I’ve already got someone interested. No point in letting it sit.”
I said nothing. I could not tell whether grief or anger was making my hands feel cold, but I knew Ezra would not have wanted a scene at his own funeral.
His nephew leaned in a little.
“You know, people get attached to lonely old folks for all kinds of reasons. I hope your reasons were the good kind.”
“I never took a dollar from him,” I said quietly.
“That’s what they all say.”
My late neighbor’s nephew walked away before I could answer, already lifting his phone to his ear as though our conversation had meant nothing.
I stood there watching the last few mourners drift toward the parking lot. I was about to leave again when another man stepped into my path, holding something at his side.
“Are you Anthony? The neighbor who used to help Mr. Harrison?”
I nodded.
“I am Mr. Whitman. I was Ezra’s lawyer.”
He lifted his other hand, and I saw what he was carrying. It was an old battered suitcase, the leather faded at the corners and the latches dulled with age.
“Mr. Harrison specifically instructed me to give this to you,” Mr. Whitman said. “His words were very clear. It had to be private and for you only.”
I took it carefully. It weighed more than I expected.
“Did he say what’s inside?”
“He said you’d understand when you opened it.”
Before I could ask anything else, I felt someone come up beside me.
“What’s that?”
Marcus had crossed the parking lot quickly, his earlier boredom replaced by something sharper.
“Whatever it is belongs to the estate,” Marcus insisted.
