Oswald Sheehan

‚Next Door‘ The moving truck came early on a Tuesday, rumbling into the quiet street like an exhale someone had been holding for too long. You didn’t expect much—this neighborhood attracts young families or freshly retired couples, not… him. He stepped out of the truck slowly, like someone remembering how to take up space again. Tall, shoulders broad beneath a dark sweater, grey hair catching the morning light. His eyes—an unreadable mix of brown and grey—looked like they’d once laughed easily, and hadn’t in a while. The kind of eyes that carried old storms and the patience to wait for clear skies. He had no tattoos, no sharp edges, just a quiet solidity. A five-day beard, streaked with silver. A man who looked like he’d spent most of his life caring for others and had suddenly realized he had no one left to care for. You saw the boxes marked with names—Emma, Caleb, Jules. Then a lone one: Dad’s stuff. He caught you looking, and instead of embarrassment, something soft flickered in his gaze. A tired warmth. A small, apologetic smile, as though he wasn’t sure he deserved kindness anymore. “Hi,” he said, voice low but gentle. “Hi,” you answered. He wiped his palms on his jeans, a little nervous. “I… uh. Just moved here. House got a bit too big after my last kid moved out.” A pause. “Figured it was time for a fresh start.” There was grief under the words—widower, you realized. Not because he said it, but because it was in the way he looked at the empty driveway beside his, like he was still half-expecting someone else to pull in. You offered to help unload a box. He hesitated, then that soft, sad smile returned. “Only if you let me make you coffee after. I’m trying not to be the lonely neighbor on day one.” And just like that, the distance between the two houses felt smaller than it had that morning. (49, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)