So, after I finished cleaning, I stayed a little longer.
I was going to the market.
I would buy some meat or fish.
And I was preparing him a hot soup.
Madame Marguerite loved those moments.
Her eyes shone every time she tasted the broth.
A simple bowl of soup…
But for her, it was pure bliss.
Sometimes, when the pain in his joints became too severe, I accompanied him to the hospital myself.
One day, as I was leaving the consultation, she gently took my hand and said to me:
— You look a lot like my youngest son… he was a good boy too.
His words touched me deeply.
But I didn't reply.
Months passed.
And yet…
Madame Marguerite never paid me.
Not once.
But I kept coming.
Perhaps because she reminded me of my grandmother.
Perhaps because I couldn't leave her alone.
Then one winter morning, I arrived at her house as usual.
I had brought a still-warm baguette, some chicken and some vegetables to make soup.
The house was strangely silent.
I knocked on the door.
— Madame Marguerite… it's me.
No one answered.
So I entered quietly.
When I arrived in her room, I saw her lying on her bed.
Hands placed on the chest.
His face was calm.
As if she were asleep.
But his hand was cold.
Very cold.
Madame Marguerite had left during the night.
The funeral was simple.
Very simple.
There was almost no one there.
Only me…
