An Ordinary Tuesday
I was thirty-two years old and working as a maintenance technician at St. Andrew’s Hospital. My days were predictable. Fix broken elevators. Replace light fixtures. Repair plumbing. Smile politely at nurses rushing through crowded hallways.
It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked helping people in small ways.
Every morning before beginning my rounds, I’d stop by the hospital café for coffee.
One rainy Tuesday, every table was occupied except for one.
An elderly woman sat alone, staring out the window.
She smiled when I asked whether the empty chair was taken.
“It is now,” she said warmly.
We talked for fifteen minutes.
Her name was Eleanor Brooks.
She was eighty-six years old.
She loved crossword puzzles, classical music, and lemon cookies.
Before I returned to work, she thanked me for making her morning less lonely.
I thought that was the end of it.
