8
On the first Sunday after the funeral, a small plate of cookies sat on Mrs. Daniel’s doormat with a note that said simply, “For tea.”
The next Sunday there was another plate, and the next, each with a neat recipe card and a different handwriting. She tried to catch the baker, then realized there were many. Copying the cards into a notebook became her small ceremony before dusk. By the fifth week she left her door open while she drank tea, and neighbors began to step in to ask which recipe she liked best. The house that had sounded like an empty shell learned to echo again—this time with the clink of cups and the softness of people who were gentle enough to arrive quietly.
