His funeral was packed. People came, cried, hugged me, and made promises to stay close.
But as time moved on, the calls stopped. The visits faded. Everyone vanished—except Daniel.
Daniel was Ben’s best friend. He was just 16, lanky and soft-spoken, but during Ben’s three-year battle with a heart condition, Daniel was the one who showed up.
“Mr. Scott,” he once said, holding up a notebook, “I drew new pages for Ben. Thought he’d like these.”
Even when the machines buzzed louder than our hopes, he came. My relatives stopped showing up, but Daniel never missed a day.
One night, Ben looked at me, weak and pale. “Dad,” he whispered, “can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I said, brushing his hair back.
“If I don’t make it… Give Daniel my college fund. He deserves it more than I.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I said, trying not to break. “You’ll get better. You’ll use that money yourself.”
“No, Dad. Promise me.”
I paused, heart heavy. “I promise.”
A few weeks later, Ben passed peacefully.
I thought Daniel would disappear like everyone else. But the Tuesday after the funeral, he knocked on my door.
“I just wanted to see how you’re doing, Mr. Scott.”
