“She spoke of the Whitaker orchard.”

“They had apple trees,” I said, a tear suddenly warming my cheek.

“Thomas used to bring me dried apples when we first started dating.”

“My goodness,” Harold whispered.

He set his mug down on the table with a soft clink.

“They must have gone to the same school,” Harold said.

“They must have,” I agreed.

“Thomas was born in nineteen fifty-four.”

“Margaret was fifty-six,” Harold said, his voice hushed with awe.

“They would have been in the high school at the very same time.”

I stared at the steam rising from my black coffee.

It felt like the room had grown smaller, warmer.

The quiet chatter of the other café patrons faded into the background.

“It is a very small world,” I said softly.

“Or perhaps it is something more,” Harold suggested.

He reached his hand across the table, his fingers stopping just short of mine.

“Perhaps they wanted us to find each other, Eleanor.”

“To help each other through the dark.”

The thought was beautiful, like a soft light in a cold room.