The Soup, The Silence, and William's Thirty-Two Room Echo.

I used to help my neighbour William. He had a 32-room mansion. That’s not a house, that’s a hotel with commitment issues.

I didn’t know William had any family. He was like a solo jazz musician just him, a trumpet, and 32 rooms of echo.

When he got sick, I did his shopping. I bought him soup. Not because he asked for it, but because soup is the universal sign of “I care, but I don’t know how to cook.”

Then William died. I offered to carry Humbert’s Coffin as I thought he had neither family or any friends.

But suddenly bam! there’s a whole parade of long-lost siblings. They came out of nowhere. Like mushrooms after rain. Or relatives after inheritance.

One guy said, “I’m William’s brother.” I said, “Cool. What room did you live in?” He said, “Emotionally? The attic.”

They all wanted to help. I said, “Where were you when I was buying soup and Googling ‘how to fold a fitted sheet for a coffin liner’?”

It’s weird. When someone dies, people show up like it’s a concert. But the headliner is silence.

I miss William. He never asked for much. Just soup, solitude, and someone to ignore the other 31 rooms.

Now I’m back to shopping for myself. I bought soup. Not because I’m sick. Just nostalgic for the kind of quiet that doesn’t come with a family reunion and a will-reading.

I’m Jim. I used to be a good neighbour. Now I’m just a guy with soup and questions.