When I got home, Misty and Greg were already sitting in my kitchen. They had brought a woman named Mrs. Gable, a local notary, and a stack of papers to transfer the deed of my house.

Misty had a black plastic trash bag in her hand.

“We’re going to clean out the clutter today, Clara,” Misty said, her smile tight and empty. “We can’t have the buyers seeing all this junk.”

She reached for the oak sewing box on my counter.

“Don’t touch that,” I said.

My voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. I walked over and placed the new blue piece of glass right on top of the legal papers.

“Read the back, Misty,” I whispered.

Misty snatched the glass, her face tight with a smug little grin. She thought she finally had the proof she needed.

But as her eyes focused on the tiny gold writing, her grin didn’t just fade. It evaporated.

Her jaw actually went slack.

“What is this?” Misty stammered.

Written on the back in gold paint was: “I sat with him. He told me about your garden. – Thomas.”

Before Misty could say another word, the front screen door rattled.

Thomas, the quiet man who had spent the last twenty years sweeping the floors and tending the lawns at Saint Jude’s, was standing on my porch. But he wasn’t wearing his usual dusty blue overalls.

He was wearing a clean grey suit, and he had a thick folder tucked under his arm.

“I think you should let the lady keep her house,” Thomas said, his voice quiet but incredibly steady.

Misty scoffed, trying to regain her footing. “Thomas? You’re the janitor. What are you doing in her house?”

Thomas walked into my kitchen and set his folder on the table.

He looked at the notary, Mrs. Gable, and then at my son, Greg.

“Before I retired to tend the church grounds, I was the Chief of Nursing at Mercy County Hospital,” Thomas said. He pulled an old plastic hospital ID badge from his pocket and laid it on the table.

“I was the night nurse on duty the night Arthur passed,” Thomas continued, looking directly at Greg. “Your father was terrified of the dark, and his wife was stuck on Route 30 in a blizzard. So I sat with him. I held his hand for four hours.”

My throat felt completely tight. I looked at the blue glass.

“Arthur told me about your garden, Clara,” Thomas said softly, turning to me. “He told me how you grew those heirloom tomatoes, and how you kept a wooden sewing box of your mother’s things. He made me promise that I’d keep an eye on you if he didn’t make it through the night.”

Thomas looked back at Misty.