()Grandma took in a young guy who had nowhere to crash. But in the middle of the night, she caught him sneaking toward her bed and FROZE when she saw what he started doing…

Without all that, nothing mattered. The porcelain teacups and lace doilies were useless. The violets on the windowsill bloomed but brought no joy. Fishing rods were stacked on the balcony—expensive spinning reels and a new net.

Who would pick them up now? Who would go fishing on Sundays and come back beaming with three small fish in a net? After her prayer and the priest’s blessing, Margaret Anne went home. She tried not to think about how no one was waiting for her there, how she would open the door, step into the dark hallway, turn on the light, and, in silence, take off her shoes and hang her coat. Then she would turn on the TV but neither watch nor listen to it, just to break the silence.

Tea with lemon balm and mint cookies for dinner. She had completely lost her appetite. At first, she cooked out of habit, then realized she couldn’t eat an entire skillet of fried potatoes, which used to barely feed two hungry men with hearty appetites.

She had cooked a whole pot of pasta, forgetting she was now alone. She would wander the empty apartment, not knowing what to do with herself. Before, she had so many chores that she hardly had time to sit down.

She used to dream of a time when she’d have less housework and more time to rest. And now, she didn’t need to wash, iron, or cook as much, and cleaning was minimal. But there was no happiness in this empty life.

The priest had suggested last time that she get a puppy or a kitten, and it wasn’t a bad idea. There would be someone alive in the apartment besides her. She could talk to it, care for it, love it.

She would do it, but later. For now, Margaret wasn’t ready to let someone new into her life. Tomorrow, she would go to church again, pray, and seek comfort, humility, and acceptance of her harsh reality.

For now, a large bed awaited her, the other half empty again. Margaret lay there, staring at the ceiling, the wall. She watched as the light from passing cars’ headlights slid from the top corner of the room diagonally to the bottom.

Again and again, with every car driving down the quiet street near her building, Margaret didn’t sleep. She just lay there, eyes open, unable to drift off.

Sleep came only toward morning, heavy and dark, without dreams—just a plunge into nothingness where she felt and sensed nothing. Until she realized it was time to wake up, open her eyes, and emerge from that thick, suffocating void that brought neither rest nor the satisfaction it once did. The last time she dreamed was the night before the funeral, a vivid, colorful dream.

She saw her loved ones one last time. They were as alive, smiling, and nodding warmly. But they were distant, and she couldn’t approach or embrace them.

Her husband had his arm around their son’s shoulders, and the boy leaned into him as he used to, smiling at her, raising his hand as if to wave goodbye. She told no one about that strange dream. But why call it strange? She had been thinking of them constantly then.

Her mind had simply shown her those thoughts. Could it really be their souls coming to say farewell? Margaret kept waiting, hoping to see them in a dream again, but there had been no dreams since—not a single one. And so she lay in bed, waiting to sink into that dark oblivion, no longer hoping for anything.

The next day, Margaret went to church again after lunch. She hoped to see the priest, maybe talk to him. Those conversations soothed her—the words, his calm, gentle tone, his steady voice—and they helped her get through another day, another night of loneliness.

But she only glimpsed the priest briefly. On the church steps, he handed a young man an apple and a small bag with a couple of pastries, gave him a pat on the shoulder, said something, and quickly went inside. Margaret had seen this young man in church almost every day.

She noticed his lanky frame, light brown hair, and those vulnerable, slightly protruding ears. Once, she had stood behind him and seen him pray—or rather, saw his shoulders, thin neck, and those ears sticking out so innocently. And there he was again in church…

He took the apple and the bag of pastries from the priest, bowed in gratitude, and immediately began eating one of the pastries. Stepping aside to avoid blocking the steps, he bit into it with the eagerness and care of a starving child, hunching slightly as if embarrassed to eat in public. Margaret didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by staring.

She continued toward the open doors, but once inside, she didn’t follow her usual path. She stopped and turned back. From inside, she had a clear view of the churchyard.

She kept watching the young man. No one else was around. He was alone, yet he ate as if a huge crowd were watching, jeering, and mocking him.

His raised, hunched shoulders, tucked-in head, and curved back said so much. Margaret saw him wipe the back of his hand across one cheek, then the other. She thought she even heard him sniffle.

She understood what that gesture meant. He was wiping tears from his cheeks, the way children do. Margaret’s nose suddenly stung.

She was on the verge of tears again, but this time, she felt something different. Just yesterday, she had pitied herself and her grief, her chest burning with the pain of loss. But now, she felt heartbroken for this young man, furtively eating those two pastries. It was clear he was a good person, neat and clean.

But why was he so unhappy? Who was hurting him? Why was he so hungry that even the priest was feeding him? There he was, eating the apple, holding it with both hands, biting into it hurriedly, as if someone might snatch it away. Margaret suddenly realized with irritation that although she had stopped by the store, she hadn’t bought any groceries. Just half a loaf of rye bread…