STUPID, SOFTY GENERATION. I always get iced tea. But it can’t be too cold, and definitely not too sweet. Two lemon wedges, and a straw,” Mr. Norton muttered, almost with a snarl.
Jessie’s brows arched, but she just walked off to put in the iced tea. Simple as it was, the man still found fault. First it came back too sweet, then it was too cold.
For years, Jessie had served the old, grumpy Mr. Norton. She had developed a way of managing him that impressed everyone else on staff.
Then one day, there was no payment left on the table. Normally he’d pay and leave a few extra bills as a tip, but that day Jessie found only a key and a note.
What was in that note is in the comments below. 👇Jessie picked up the small, tarnished key and unfolded the note. The handwriting was shaky but legible, a stark contrast to Mr. Norton’s usually gruff voice.
*Jessie,* it read. *They tell me my time is shorter than I thought. Couldn’t face telling you face to face. This key… it’s to my apartment. Go when you can. Don’t expect much. Just… something there you might want.*
Jessie’s heart sank. ‘Shorter than I thought.’ Those words hung heavy in the air of the bustling diner. She reread the note, her eyes tracing the uneven lines. Mr. Norton was… was he dying? The thought was jarring. Behind the grumbles and the nitpicking, there had been a constant presence, a familiar annoyance that was simply *there*. The idea of him not being there felt… wrong.
The rest of the day blurred. She served coffee, took orders, smiled at customers, but her mind kept drifting back to the key and the note tucked safely in her apron pocket. What could be in his apartment? ‘Something you might want.’ Mr. Norton wasn’t exactly known for his generosity. Or was he? Perhaps his grumpiness was a shield.
After her shift, Jessie, still in her diner uniform, drove to the address she vaguely remembered Mr. Norton mentioning once, years ago, when complaining about parking near the diner. It was a modest apartment building, a little rundown but well-maintained. She found his apartment number and, with a slightly trembling hand, inserted the key.
The apartment was small, sparsely furnished, but impeccably clean. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It smelled faintly of old books and lemon – a familiar scent that tugged at Jessie’s memory. She walked slowly through the living room, her eyes taking in the simple surroundings. A worn armchair sat by the window, a stack of books on a small table beside it. On the mantelpiece, a single framed photograph caught her eye.
Jessie picked it up. It was a picture of a young man in uniform, smiling broadly. Behind him, a young woman, her arm linked with his, beaming with happiness. They were both so young, so full of life. And then Jessie noticed the woman’s face. It was her. Or rather, a woman who looked remarkably like her, with the same arched brows and warm smile.
She turned the photo over. On the back, in the same shaky handwriting as the note, was written: *Eliza, 1952.*
Jessie’s breath hitched. Eliza. He had called her Eliza once, years ago, when she had first started working at the diner. She had corrected him, of course, but she remembered the fleeting, almost wistful look in his eyes.
Suddenly, the ‘something you might want’ made a little more sense. She looked around the room again, her gaze settling on a small, antique wooden box on the coffee table. Hesitantly, she opened it.
Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a delicate silver locket. Jessie carefully lifted it out. It was intricately engraved with tiny flowers and leaves. She opened the locket. Inside, on one side, was a miniature photograph of the young woman from the framed picture – Eliza. On the other side, a small, folded piece of paper.
Jessie unfolded it. It was another note, written in the same shaky hand, but this one was older, the paper yellowed with time.
*My Dearest Eliza,* it read. *If you ever read this, know that not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you. Life took us on different paths, but you were always in my heart. I hope you found happiness. If not, perhaps in another lifetime. Yours always, Thomas.*
Jessie’s eyes welled up. Thomas. Mr. Norton. He wasn’t just a grumpy old man ordering iced tea. He was Thomas, who had loved an Eliza, a woman who looked like her, a lifetime ago. The iced tea, the two lemon wedges, the straw – it wasn’t about being picky. It was a ritual, a connection to a memory, a small comfort in a life that had carried its own quiet sorrows.
She understood now. The grumpiness, the fault-finding, it was a way of keeping people at arm’s length, a way of protecting a heart that had loved and lost. And maybe, just maybe, in her years of patient service, in her quiet understanding, she had reminded him, just a little, of Eliza.
Jessie gently closed the locket and placed it back in the box. She picked up the framed photograph of young Eliza and Thomas and held it close. She wouldn’t keep the locket. It belonged with his memories. But the photo… the photo she would keep. A reminder that even the grumpiest exteriors can hide the most tender hearts, and that sometimes, the simplest act of kindness, like serving iced tea just the way someone wants it, can be a small bridge across lifetimes.
She left the apartment, locking the door behind her, the photograph tucked carefully in her bag. The sky was turning a soft shade of pink as the sun began to set. Jessie looked up at the sky and whispered, “Goodbye, Mr. Norton. Goodbye, Thomas.” And in the quiet evening air, she felt a strange sense of peace, a quiet understanding that transcended words, an understanding born from years of iced tea and lemon wedges and a key and a note.