The Old Man Who Had No One Left to Call

He was 78 years old.
One of those quiet, gentle men who never bothered anyone — the type of neighbor people wave to, but never really know.

Three months ago, he buried his wife of fifty-three years.
The love of his life.
The woman who fixed his tie every Sunday, who remembered his medications, who whispered “I’m right here, Tom” whenever the world felt too heavy.

And then, as if losing her wasn’t enough, life hit him again.

Just a few weeks after the funeral, his only son — the last person he had in this world — was taken in a car accident.
A phone call.
A police officer at the door.
A father shouldn’t outlive his child.
But Tom did.

Now every night, he sits in the same chair by the window, holding two photographs in his hands — his wife and his son — staring at them like they’re the only pieces of his soul he has left.

He doesn’t talk much anymore.
He doesn’t answer his phone.
He barely eats.

He just whispers one sentence into the empty room:

“Why did You take them both? Why am I still here?”

Last night, his neighbor saw him through the window — shoulders shaking, face in his hands, crying the kind of cry that doesn’t make a sound… because it’s too deep for sound.

Not anger.
Not fear.
Just a man whose entire world disappeared, trying to survive one more night with a heart that’s been broken twice.

And the truth is…
the loneliest people in the world are often the ones who loved the hardest.