“I’m so sorry to bother you, Ruth,” I began, “but I wanted to see how you’re doing. I heard what happened, and I want you to know that you’re not alone. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

Ruth looked at me, her expression softening. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I — I don’t know what to do now. Everything feels… empty.”

“Would you like some company?” I offered. “We could talk, or not talk. Whatever you need.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “That would be nice.”

I followed her into the house, noticing how still and quiet it was inside. We sat down in her cozy living room, and I could see how much pain she was in. But there was also a glimmer of gratitude in her eyes, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to care.

We talked for a while, mostly about small things like our favorite books, the weather, and the neighborhood. Slowly, Ruth began to open up about her son, sharing beautiful and heartbreaking memories.

She told me how he used to love fishing and was always full of life. The more she spoke, the more I realized how deeply she had been affected by his death and how this cruel deception had reopened old wounds.

As the evening wore on, I made us a cup of tea. Sitting in Ruth’s living room, sipping tea and listening to her stories, I felt a connection forming between us. It was as if, in that moment, we both understood the importance of not letting each other go through life alone.

I even discovered she had luckily gone to the town next to us to visit a friend the day I found the note. She only arrived home that morning and was shocked when the police came knocking.

Before I left, I made sure to give Ruth my phone number. “Call me anytime,” I told her. “Even if it’s just to talk. I’m here for you.”

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