The one who sees everyone is, often, seen by no one.

I went home every night to an empty house, having witnessed ninety lives, and no one had witnessed mine.

I had made my peace with that; I’d told myself the seeing was enough, that to give it was its own reward and I needed nothing back.

And then came that last morning, and every house on forty-two miles of road was standing at its box, waiting — not for their mail, there was no mail that mattered, but for me.

To see me.

To thank me.