Arnold’s 93rd birthday wish was heartfelt: to hear his children’s laughter fill his house one last time.

The table was set, the turkey roasted, and the candles lit as he waited for them.

Hours dragged on in painful silence until a knock came at the door. But it wasn’t who he’d been waiting for.

The cottage at the end of Maple Street had seen better days, much like its sole occupant. Arnold sat in his worn armchair, the leather cracked from years of use, while his tabby cat Joe purred softly in his lap.

At 92, his fingers weren’t as steady as they used to be, but they still found their way through Joe’s orange fur, seeking comfort in the familiar silence.

The afternoon light filtered through dusty windows, casting long shadows across photographs that held fragments of a happier time.

“You know what today is, Joe?” Arnold’s voice quavered as he reached for a dusty photo album, his hands trembling not just from age. “Little Tommy’s birthday. He’d be… let me see… 42 now.”

He flipped through pages of memories, each one a knife to his heart. “Look at him here, missing those front teeth. Mariam made him that superhero cake he wanted so badly. I still remember how his eyes lit up!” His voice caught.

“He hugged her so tight that day, got frosting all over her lovely dress. She didn’t mind one bit. She never minded when it came to making our kids happy.”

Michael proudly holding his first trophy, his father’s eyes shining with pride behind the camera. Sarah in her graduation gown, tears of joy mixing with the spring rain. And Tommy on his wedding day, looking so much like Arnold in his own wedding photo that it made his chest ache.

“The house remembers them all, Joe,” Arnold whispered, running his weathered hand along the wall where pencil marks still tracked his children’s heights.

His fingers lingered on each line, each carrying a poignant memory. “That one there? That’s from Bobby’s indoor baseball practice. Mariam was so mad,” he chuckled wetly, wiping his eyes.

“But she couldn’t stay angry when he gave her those puppy dog eyes. ‘Mama,’ he’d say, ‘I was practicing to be like Daddy.’ And she’d just melt.”

He then shuffled to the kitchen, where Mariam’s apron still hung on its hook, faded but clean.

“Remember Christmas mornings, love?” he spoke to the empty air. “Five pairs of feet thundering down those stairs, and you pretending you didn’t hear them sneaking peeks at presents for weeks.”

Arnold then hobbled to the porch. Tuesday afternoons usually meant sitting on the swing, watching the neighborhood children play. Their laughter reminded Arnold of bygone days when his own yard had been full of life. Today, his neighbor Ben’s excited shouts interrupted the routine.

“Arnie! Arnie!” Ben practically skipped across his lawn, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You’ll never believe it! Both my kids are coming home for Christmas!”