Grandma Livia had lived alone for so long that even the chairs in her living room seemed to forget the sound of conversation. Her small house sat at the edge of a quiet town, where nights were colder and mornings arrived a little too slowly.

But the hardest part wasn’t the weather.
It was the emptiness.

Every Evening Felt the Same

At exactly 6 p.m., Livia would turn off the radio after listening to the evening news.
She didn’t care much about politics or weather; she only listened so she wouldn’t feel completely disconnected from the world.

After that, she would walk to the kitchen, open the refrigerator that was always too empty, and prepare a simple meal — usually bread, warm milk, and whatever fruit she had left.

She placed the food gently on the dining table.
Across from her was an empty chair that once belonged to her late husband, Theo.

She still couldn’t move the chair.
It felt like betrayal.

She Spoke to No One, Yet Her Heart Never Stopped Talking

Even though her mouth stayed quiet, her thoughts were loud.

Why do my days feel so heavy?
Do my children still remember me?
Is this what getting old is supposed to feel like?

She hated that most of her questions had no answers.

A Memory That Refused to Fade

On nights when loneliness hit hardest, Livia remembered the last promise Theo made before leaving:

“If you ever feel alone, talk to the moon. I’ll listen from wherever I am.”

At the time, she laughed.
It sounded romantic and silly.

But now, it was all she had left.

The Night That Changed Something in Her

One night, after an especially quiet dinner, Livia stepped outside with her shawl tightly wrapped around her shoulders. The sky was unusually clear, and the moon hung low, glowing like a lantern waiting just for her.

For a moment, she hesitated — talking to the moon made her feel foolish.

But loneliness doesn’t care about pride.

So she whispered:

“Theo… I miss you.”

Her voice cracked.

“You said the moon would listen.
So… are you listening?”

The wind moved gently, the leaves rustled, and the moon remained still — yet the silence felt different tonight.

It felt warmer.

Livia sat on the wooden bench outside her home and let the memories flow.
She talked about the garden they once planted, about their grandchildren who rarely visited, about how long the nights had become.

And for the first time in years…
She cried without trying to stop herself.

A Quiet Visitor

As she wiped her tears, she heard footsteps behind her.

A teenage boy from next door — someone she had seen but never spoken to — stood there awkwardly.

“Grandma Livia,” he said softly, “I saw you sitting alone. I… I made too much hot chocolate. Would you like some?”

She blinked in surprise.

Warm hands.
Warm drink.
Warm moment.

It had been so long since someone offered her something with pure kindness.

“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’d love that.”

The Beginning of Small Changes

The boy began visiting her every few evenings.
Sometimes they talked; sometimes they just sat quietly, watching the night sky together.

Livia didn’t tell him about her tears.
She didn’t tell him about the moon.

She didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long, long while…
She wasn’t talking to the moon alone.

And for an elderly heart that had carried too much sadness,
that tiny bit of companionship felt like a miracle.