For three months, Hannah had learned to look forward to the little sound her phone made whenever Daniel messaged her.
At 47, she had grown used to a quiet house. Too used to it, maybe. Her evenings had become predictable: dinner for one, a half-watched show, and a cup of tea cooling beside her on the coffee table while the rest of the world seemed to move on without her.
Then Daniel appeared.
He was 55, with a warm voice, gentle manners, and a way of making Hannah feel seen without trying too hard. He asked about her day and remembered small things, like the name of her neighbor’s noisy dog and the fact that she hated cilantro.
When she mentioned she had not slept well, he checked on her the next morning.
“Did you rest at all?” he had typed once.