The Sound of Thursday Mornings

Title: "The Sound of Thursday Mornings"

Every Thursday at exactly 7:32 a.m., Mr. Foster watered his porch plants.

I know this because I watched him every week from the second-story window of my apartment. It wasn’t creepy—at least I didn’t think so. It was ritual. Comforting. Like the way some people listen to the same song on repeat until they stop crying, or how others always order the same coffee when their heart is broken.

I’d lost my job three Thursdays ago. It wasn’t dramatic. No yelling, no tears. Just a cold, brief email that ended with, “we wish you the best.” I remember staring at the screen for a long time, wondering if the world outside still moved.

It did. Mr. Foster still watered his porch plants.

He wore a faded maroon bathrobe and gray slippers that scuffed slightly as he shuffled around. He hummed to himself—a tune I never recognized but always felt oddly familiar. Maybe it was the sound of someone who had made peace with being alone.

He lived alone, that much I knew. No one came or went. His mailbox overflowed more often than not, and yet, every Thursday, he still remembered the plants.

I started making coffee at 7:30, just so I wouldn’t miss it. Watching him reminded me that time hadn't stopped. That even when your world cracks a little, someone out there is still humming. Still tending to small, green things.

One Thursday, I left a note in his mailbox. No name. Just:

"Your porch plants are beautiful. Thank you for keeping them alive."

The next Thursday, there was a second watering can on the porch.

Two mugs on the railing.

And an extra rocking chair.

He never looked up at my window. He just watered the plants, sat down, and waited.

So the following week, I went downstairs.

Sometimes, healing doesn’t sound like music. Sometimes, it sounds like slippers on wood and the hush of water pouring into soil.