He nodded. “I’m not trying to be your uncle. I’ve just been… here. Quietly.”
“It’s Cal. Your light’s been flickering for an hour. And I can hear water.”
He was my neighbor. He was also, somehow, becoming Unc —the older brother I never had, the calm voice that said this won’t break you .
A year later, I gave him back the spare key. Not because I was leaving—because I was staying.
“That’s Cal,” he said, nodding toward a pair of worn work boots on the second-floor landing. “Everyone calls him Unc. He’s quiet, fixes things, and keeps to himself. But if you ever need help—real help—he shows up.”
“I know,” I said. “The age gap. The neighbor thing. The ‘Unc’ thing.”