It was him.

Clean-shaven now, hair combed back. His face brighter—not just physically, but as if sorrow had been scrubbed away. He carried a small paper bag.

He walked up the path slowly, reverently.

“Do you… remember me?” he asked.

I nodded.

Lily peeked around me. “That’s the man who was sad.”

He knelt to her eye level. “Yes, little one. I was very sad. My wife and I were expecting twins. We were driving to see my parents when we had an accident. They didn’t make it. She didn’t make it.”

His voice broke.

“I did. And I wished I hadn’t. I drowned myself in alcohol. My brother took over the company while I stopped caring. I wasn’t homeless because of money. I was homeless because I had no will to live.”

Lily whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He met her gaze, eyes wet. “That day outside the store, I wasn’t hungry. I was tired of breathing. And then you came—with your lemonade and your little voice. You reminded me of my wife. You woke me up. You saved me.”