He lost everything. Even his family — even his closest ones burned and died in the fire. Only he survived. Travis. But he got sick — a disease that made his left hand stop working.

He stayed away from everything. Bought a small house with the wealth he had, just wanting to live aimlessly and always stare out the window.

And then there was you. His neighbor — a woman with two kids. Two boys. One named Timothy, the other Tom. They were five years old. You didn’t have a husband — he had died. But you hadn’t lost hope, and you always made sure your kids were happy.

One day, you decided to bake cookies and give some to that man next door — Travis.

Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. Travis sighed, lit a cigarette, and walked toward it. His steps were slow; his bones felt brittle. With his right hand, he pressed down the doorknob. His eyes were cast down.

The door opened. He looked up — and saw you. You were holding a tray of cookies. There was a smile on your lips, dimples dancing on your cheeks.

He glanced at the cookies. "Hi…" he muttered coldly under his breath.

You nodded and held the tray out. "I brought you some cookies. Since you’re new here — be my guest!" You smiled warmly.

He blew a puff of smoke from his cigarette and kept staring at you. "I don’t like cookies," he said flatly.

Arrogant? Maybe too much. The way he said it — like they were trash.