The neighbor's crying. Thick tears roll over her sunken cheeks, tearing her way past her chin and then ending up in her cotton handkerchief.
The neighbor is sincerely sad, her gasp goes through the marrow and leg. I want to comfort and hold her, but I don't dare so well: not because I'm afraid, but because she might be afraid.

I step over my doubts and take a step towards her with my arms wide, meanwhile I look at the face of the 92 year old human standing in front of me. She does not flinch, so I take one more step forward and grasp her tightly.

She's small, vulnerable. She's my 10-year-old in size, but she's much more fragile. I hold her and make her cry her tears. I secretly cry with her.

When she sobs out I let her go, she grabs my hand while I take a step back to give her some space again.

Her tearful eyes look at me lovingly. There's a “thank you, “while she's squeezing my hand.

For a moment, we stand like this, without words. No words are needed either: we feel each other.

Not much later the old man walks back home to her heartbreaking loneliness.

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