For twelve years, Anthony thought his Sunday grocery trips for his 84-year-old neighbor were simply a small routine between friends. He would pick up what Ezra needed, stop by the house, sit for a while, and listen. It never felt like charity. It felt ordinary.
Then Ezra died, and after the funeral, his lawyer handed Anthony a battered suitcase with his name on it.
Anthony did not understand why Ezra had left it for him. He understood even less why Ezra had made sure it would only be given to him after everything was over.
When he opened the first clasp, his hands were shaking.