The faucet in the laundry room had been leaking for weeks. Slow, consistent, an off-beat metronome tapping out the things he hadn’t gotten around to. Kyle didn’t mind it anymore. The drip kept him company when the house got too quiet.

He sat at the kitchen table in his work boots, eating a bowl of cornflakes gone soft. It was nearly noon, and the sun cut a sharp line across the floor. He stared at the wall beside the fridge, where the paint peeled like bark.

He could fix it. He had the tools. But he didn’t.

The garage still smelled like her. Motor oil and lavender detergent. Her coveralls hung limp from the pegboard, zipper stuck halfway. She used to change the oil in both trucks, and said she liked the quiet under the chassis. Said it made her feel like a mechanic and not just someone’s wife.

He hadn’t touched her things. Not even the wrench she always left slightly out of place, tilted just off-center on the bench. He used to nudge it back without thinking. Now he left it crooked. Felt like a kind of respect.

The knock came around two. Sharp. Three times. He opened the door to find a boy no older than sixteen, sweat haloed under his arms, backpack slung forward like a shield.

“You got any work?” the kid asked.

Kyle looked him over. The kid’s shoes were talking at the toes. His eyes didn’t hold still. Kyle could see the hunger in the way he stood.

“I don’t,” Kyle said.

The kid nodded once. Turned.

“Wait,” Kyle said. “You know how to patch drywall?”

“Some.”

He let the boy in. Gave him a sandwich, a brush, and a bucket. Pointed at the peeling wall.

The kid worked without speaking, careful strokes, eyes locked on the job like it was the most important thing in the world. When he finished, he washed the brush and set it to dry without being told.

“You want to come back tomorrow?” Kyle asked.

The kid nodded.

They didn’t shake hands.

That night, Kyle finally fixed the faucet. Turned the wrench slowly, until the drip stopped for good.