Nora’s gaze moved to Elliot, sharp and searching. She had spent seventy-five years learning how to read people fast. After a long beat she stepped aside. “Come in. Apartment’s small, but you’re welcome.”
Inside smelled faintly of menthol rub and chamomile tea. The couch sagged in the middle. The television was ancient. But everything was clean.
Elliot sat carefully, like he was afraid of breaking something just by existing.
Nora lowered herself into the recliner. “So,” she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Tell me why a man like you would spend his Saturday sitting through a fourth-grade graduation for a child he’s never met.”
Elliot didn’t look away. “Because your granddaughter was brave enough to ask a stranger for something most adults would be too proud to ask for. And because… I used to have a little girl. She’d be about Lila’s age now if she were still here.”
The room went very still.
Nora’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Lost her?”
“Leukemia. She was five.”
Nora exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”