Arnold’s 93rd birthday wish was simple but heartfelt: to hear the laughter of his children echo through his home one last time. The dining table was carefully set, with the finest linens, a golden turkey, and flickering candles casting gentle shadows. Yet, as time passed, the only sound in the house was silence. Then, a knock at the door—but it wasn’t who Arnold had been waiting for.
Arnold’s cottage at the end of Maple Street had seen better days, much like its 92-year-old owner. Time had taken its toll, leaving cracks in the walls and in Arnold’s heart. He sat in his favorite armchair, its leather worn and faded, with Joe, his orange tabby, purring softly in his lap. Though his hands were no longer steady, they moved automatically through Joe’s fur, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm of their quiet companionship.
The afternoon sun streamed through dusty windows, illuminating photographs on the mantle. Each picture told a story of joy and love: Bobby with his mischievous grin, Jenny clutching her doll, Michael holding his first trophy, Sarah in her graduation gown, and Tommy on his wedding day, so much like a younger Arnold.
“The house remembers them, Joe,” Arnold murmured, his voice soft with nostalgia. His fingers traced the pencil marks on the wall, each one marking a childhood milestone—records of moments captured by Arnold and his late wife, Mariam. “This one’s from when Bobby decided to practice baseball indoors,” he chuckled, wiping away a tear. “Mariam couldn’t stay mad. ‘Mama,’ he’d say, ‘I’m just practicing to be like Daddy.’”
The quiet house seemed to echo with memories of a lively family. In the kitchen, Mariam’s apron still hung on its hook, a reminder of Christmas mornings when the scent of cinnamon rolls filled the air. The weight of those memories pressed heavily on Arnold as he shuffled to the porch, watching the neighborhood children play. Their laughter reminded him of a time when his own yard had been filled with such joy.
As evening approached, the loneliness grew. Arnold sat before the rotary phone, his weekly calls to his children feeling more painful than ever. Jenny’s distracted tone interrupted his attempt to reminisce. “I’m in a meeting, Dad. Can I call you back?” The others didn’t answer. Tommy briefly picked up, offering only hurried apologies. “Dad, things are crazy here. I’ll call later, okay?” The dial tone felt colder than the winter air outside.
“They used to fight over who got to talk to me first,” Arnold whispered to Joe, his voice breaking. “Now they fight over who has to talk to me at all.”

Refusing to lose hope, Arnold turned to his writing desk, a gift from Mariam years ago. With trembling hands, he wrote the same heartfelt plea on five sheets of cream-colored stationery.