Beside the second plate was a small folded note, yellowed at the edges from being handled so many times. The landlord said he had seen it before but never opened it. I hesitated, then unfolded it carefully. It was written in my neighbor’s handwriting and addressed to his late wife. The first line read, “Same time tomorrow, love.” Suddenly, the table made sense. He had been setting a place for her every evening because dinner had always been their time together.
...
