“And?”

I looked at the busy kitchen, the neighbors greeting one another, and the open door through which a quiet man had once welcomed me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“That’s the part that stays with me.

You never know which ordinary moment somebody else is depending on.”

At nine o’clock I took my place at the old oak table.

A new guest, a woman who had recently moved into the neighborhood, sat alone near the end, her hands folded around an untouched cup.

I walked over and introduced myself.