But during the final hymn, Pastor Thomas didn’t stand at the pulpit. He walked down the center aisle and took a seat in the very last pew, right where Gerald had sat for fifty years.

He sang from there, his voice echoing off the damp limestone walls.

After the service, I went back down to my office. The church was quiet again, the smell of coffee and wet wool lingering in the air.

I opened the green toolbox and placed the ledger back in the bottom tray. There was no more cash in the box. The fund was empty now, completely depleted by the cost of Gerald’s casket and the cemetery plot.

I sat there for a long time, looking at the scratched green steel. I kept waiting for some grand revelation, some sudden warmth to fill the damp basement.

But it didn’t. Mostly, I just felt tired.

I locked the office door, walked up the stairs, and stepped out into the cold November rain. I drove home, made myself some tea, and watched the water run down my kitchen window.

Tomorrow was Monday. There wouldn’t be an envelope under my door. I knew that now. But as I sat there in the quiet of my own house, I realized something else. We would find a way to keep the fund going. Even if we had to write our names on the envelopes ourselves.