“It all began on a quiet Sunday afternoon in May,” Mayra began. “It started out like just another ordinary day, the sun was shining, and a layer of puffy clouds covered Paris, letting little gaps of sunlight stream through in long sunbeams. The flowers were blooming, and the usual bustling filled the streets as tourists made their way to the usual attractions- the Eiffel Tower, the Sainte-Chapelle, and the Notre Dame de Paris. Bakers and Vendors stood at corners, advertising their woven cloths, or their warm, fluffy pastries. The air smelled of sweet, baking bread and spring tulips.
My husband and I had moved to Paris about a year before, but he hadn’t really explored the city, and we thought it was the perfect day to do so. That morning, we packed a small bag and headed out to explore our city.
We began the morning by heading to the Eiffel Tower. Later, we ate at a small café, and decided we wanted to visit the Louvre, the famous art museum in France that displayed the original Mona Lisa, and many other famous pieces.
The Louvre was beautiful. In front of the ancient building stood a glass pyramid, surrounded by fountains. It was 70 feet tall, and stood out- a modern-looking sculpture against the old museum.
The museum building itself was beautiful too, an old piece of architecture in the middle of the city. It had gorgeous engravings carved into the old stone, of angels, and birds, and gods, and artifacts from past centuries. We thought the outside was beautiful, but when we stepped inside, my breath caught inside my throat.
The inside of the Louvre museum was one of the most breathtaking places I have ever been. The vaulted ceilings were covered with gold, and displayed wild scenes of battle, and war, and ancient everyday life. There were engravings inside the building as well as the outside. The engravings were carved of gold, displaying goddesses and cherubs. The beautifully patterned floors were polished and shiny. It the center of each hallway were rows of tables, each containing a display case full of artifacts and small sculptures, crowns of past leaders and expensive stones. We toured the Louvre for the next few hours, following our tour group led by a woman with a big pink bag, looking at all the famous paintings and sculptures.
One of my favorite paintings was a picture called The Lacemaker, done by Johannes Vermeer-Delft. It was a very old picture of a woman, bent over a piece of fabric, working intently. Her beautiful face showed so much determination, and the painting was so well done, it looked like a photograph. Although the painting was small, only a little bigger than my palm, it was truly a beautiful piece.
We continued on our tour, looking at the statues next. As we reached “Venus de Milo”, a sudden flashing of lights and a blaring alarm halted our tour. The tour guide looked frantic as guards, museum workers, and tourists ran around in a panic. “Urgence! Urgence!” The museum guards cried. I was in such a panic, I had no clue what was going on. I had no clue what the guards were saying. Despite living in France, I was not fluent in French, and my basic French skills did not always suffice. The next thing I knew, my tour group was rushed off to a room, where all the other museum visitors were gathered.
Many policemen were in the room, and I could see more outside the tall window, putting crime scene tape around the perimeter of the museum. Anxious pedestrians crowded around the tape, trying to get a peek of what was going on. But those pedestrians were as clueless as me. I had no idea what was going on.
I watched the police lead a young woman into another room. With a grim look on her face, our tour guide finally explained to us what was going on, in English. “There has been a burglary.” The guide explained. “The Lacemaker has been stolen from the hall of paintings. Its estimated value is $72,000,000. The police are interrogating everyone who was in the building at the time of the crime. For now, we are all suspects.”
I watched the police bring an older American gentleman into the room as the previous woman came out, white faced. The man was yelling “I’m innocent! I’m innocent!” One by one, visitors were ushered into the room, then released.
When the police finally called my name, I was paralyzed with terror. A tall, skinny policeman with an impressive mustache took my arm and led me into the small, white-walled room. He instructed me to a hard plastic chair, across the desk from a stern looking policeman. In the corner, a female policeman with fiery red hair sat, scribbling down notes on a big yellow notepad. I sat.
The stern looking policeman glared at me. He assumed to be noting my every move, trying to deduce whether I was a clever, young thief, or just another annoying tourist. He spoke in English, yet he had a thick French accent. He pressed a button on the recording device on the desk. Then, he cleared his throat.
“I am Alexandre Descoteaux, Head of the Paris police department. I have a few questions for you concerning the missing painting.” His cold, stern eyes seemed to penetrate my thoughts as he stared coldly at me. I felt hot, and beads of perspiration began to form on my forehead. He asked me my name, and about my trip to the museum. He asked me if I had seen any suspicious behavior. Meanwhile, his redheaded assistant sat scribbling furiously at her notepad.
After what seemed like an hour (though it was probably just a few minutes), I was released. I must have looked quite pale and shaken, because my husband ran up to me and wiped the sweat off my brow, asking if I was okay. We were given permission to leave, so my husband and I left the museum as quickly as possible.
Later, we decided to eat dinner at a fancy restaurant near our apartment in Paris. My husband ordered Sole meunière avec petits pois et purée de pommes de (The French equivalent of a fillet with peas and mashed potatoes). I ordered a small ratatouille.
We were just finishing our meal when we heard shouting outside. We ran to the door, along with the other customers.
Outside, many policemen were chasing a woman down the street, including the stern policeman who had interrogated me earlier. A few of them hopped into a white police car. The engine rumbled to life and sirens filled the air. The car made a sharp turn around the corner, following the fleeing woman, who was carrying a pink bag.
We followed the group of customers around the corner of the building, curious to see what was going on. As we watched the scene keenly, the woman stopped running and turned around, hands up in surrender. I gasped and turned to my husband. His forehead creased when he recognized the woman. It was our tour guide from the Louvre!
The stern policeman grabbed the woman’s arms, handcuffing them behind her back. The mustached policeman grabbed the pink bag, but she held a tight grip. The policeman let out a grunt and yanked the bag out of the woman’s hands. She cursed, glaring at the policeman.
Our small crowd of onlookers craned their necks, trying to get a glance of what was in the mysterious, pink bag. The policeman put on a pair of rubber gloves and reached his arm into the bag. Slowly, he withdrew, pulling out a small painting. With a gasp, the crowd began to murmur. This was no ordinary painting. This was The Lacemaker.
The woman sighed as she was lowered into the police car, a look of defeat on her face.
We later learned that she was Juliette Lévesque, the famous art thief who has stolen more than $420,000,000 in priceless art. After her stunt in Paris, she was put behind bars for good, never to touch another painting again.”

“I can’t believe it was your tour guide all along!” Ben marveled.

“The woman smiled. “Yes, it was quite a shock when I found out too. She looked like a nice person, but I guess you can’t always trust appearances.”
The two agreed to meet there the next day at the same time.
Ben spent the rest of the morning thinking about the Mayra’s story. She was such an interesting woman with great experiences. She was wise and mysterious, like an owl. He couldn’t wait to hear another one of her stories tomorrow.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Ben?” Angela, Ben’s lab partner waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you going to help me or not?”
Ben snapped out of his trance. “W-what? Oh… right.” He turned to Angela and the small vial of blood in front of him. He grabbed a syringe and a test strip, and slowly dipped it into the vial.
“That’s not how you do it! Were you even listening? Dr. Morgan said to use the large PH test strips, not the small ones. And, you don’t dip the strip in the vial, you use the syringe.” Angela informed Ben, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
“Sorry.”
Ben had been zoning out all afternoon. He could not stop thinking about Mayra, and her crazy story.
The rest of his classes were uneventful, and as he sat at the desk in his cluttered dorm room, he tried to study. Exams were coming up, and he was struggling with his classes. If he couldn’t pass these exams, he couldn’t graduate in the spring, and become a doctor. He sighed and tried to push Mayra’s story out of his mind. “Focus.” He told himself, but before he even had time to open his book, he was fast asleep, his head rested on the jumbled desk.
He dreamed about Paris, and the Louvre, and the Lacemaker. He dreamed about Mayra, and her dark eyes and deep laugh. He dreamed of all the stories she would tell him tomorrow.
The next morning, Mayra was waiting for him at the shop, in the same chair she was in yesterday.
“Good morning Ben! Sleep okay?” She smiled.
“Yeah. Fine.” He replied. He grabbed his coffee off of the counter and came to sit next to her.
Mayra began her story, and Ben listened intently, sucking up every word like it was food.
* * * * * * * * * *

“This adventure began in Africa,” Mayra began. “My husband and I were on our honeymoon. We were staying in Nigeria, in a small hotel. It wasn’t what I would consider the most romantic place to honeymoon, but it was definitely quite an adventure.
The morning of our safari we woke up and had a nice breakfast in our hotel lobby. We packed a small bag full of normal tourist things: a camera, sunglasses, sunscreen, water bottles, and bug spray, and headed off on our adventure.
The sun was hot that day. Scorching hot. But the skies were blue and there was a nice breeze blowing up against our sweaty faces. We drove a little ways until we came to our destination.
A Nigerian man stood outside of a small white building. Next to the man stood a rusty safari jeep. It was beige-colored and blended in with the dusty landscape. It looked like a vehicle straight out of an old safari movie. There were three rows of seats, enough for twelve people to ride. Some of the seats were occupied.
A teenage boy-probably American- sat in the back. He had spiky blond hair. He looked bored, like his parents had dragged him along. His parents, a middle-aged couple sat next to him. They looked like stereotypical tourists, with big cameras hanging around their necks, and big Hawaiian-print shirts.
In the row in front of them, an old man sat reading a travel brochure. His wide-brimmed, army green hat cast a dark shadow over his face. He was smiling as he turned the pages of his brochure.
Next to the man sat a family of five. There was a little freckled, curly-haired girl, who was waving around a stuffed giraffe excitedly. Her older brother, who was probably eight or nine, was poking his father, who had an aggravated look on his face.
“Daddy,” the little boy said. “When are we going to see the elephants?”
“Soon.” His father answered with a sigh.
The children’s mother was bouncing a baby on her lap. The baby was chubby and red-faced. A big glob of spit rolled down its chin and onto its blue-striped onesie.
I climbed into the front row, and my husband climbed in after me. The Nigerian man, who I assumed was our tour guide, took a seat at the wheel. He turned around, a big grin on his face. In his hand was a microphone.
“Hello ladies and gentlemen! My name is Baruti, and I’ll be your tour guide today! Welcome to this safari tour!” He spoke into the microphone with a thick Nigerian accent, which was completely unnecessary; considering we could all hear him just fine. But he continued to rant rather loudly into the microphone about random, off-topic things. (The speaker was right by my ear. It was not pleasant.) After about three minutes of pointless ramblings, he announced “All right folks! It’s time to begin our safari!”
The engine rumbled to life as the guide turned the key in the ignition. And so began our bumpy ride to the savannah.
We arrived at the savannah after thirty long minutes of cheesy jokes, courtesy of our quirky tour guide.
The savannah was actually quite beautiful, considering it was just a bunch of dead grass. Acacia trees dotted the prairie, their fern-like leaves slowly swaying in the slight breeze. In the distance, purple mountains were silhouetted. A few hundred yards away, a group of giraffes craned their long necks, reaching up into the highest branches of trees, trying to get the juiciest leaves.
“Gaf!” The little curly-haired girl yelled, pointing a small, chubby finger toward the creatures.
We saw many cool animals on that tour. We saw group of elephants, some gazelles, a group of lions, and even a hippopotamus! The little children behind us were ecstatic every time they saw a wild animal. After a few hours of looking at all the amazing animals, our guide decided we’d had enough and started to drive back. But after only a few minutes of driving, there was a sickening thud, and the steady hum of the jeep engine went silent.
Baruti cursed. We were out of gas.
“Everyone remain calm.” He tried to reassure us.
The chubby baby began to cry, and the tourists in the back let out a gasp.
Baruti went around the side of the jeep. He examined the tires and checked inside the hood, looking for any physical abrasions on the vehicle. By now, the two little children were getting restless.
“Don’t worry.” Baruti said. “I will fix this.”
We heard a lot of clanking and banging from behind the raised hood of the car, as the guide tried to fix it. I wanted to tell him that the only way to fix the car would be to fill up the tank with gas, but I didn’t have the heart. Here we were outside, in the African wilderness. We had no food, no gas, and the sun was beginning so sink down into the horizon. Not to mention all the wild animals out here.
I closed my eyes and breathed, trying to relax. I had a feeling we would be here a long time.
The Nigerian guide closed the hood of the jeep.
“I’m gonna go and find help.” He said. “You.” He pointed a finger at the blond teenage kid in the back of the jeep. “What’s your name?”
“Adam.” The kid replied, clearly trying to mask his fear of being stranded.
“Come with me, Adam.” Baruti told him. “We will go find help. There is a village just north of here. It will take about two hours on foot. If we hurry, we can make it back before the wild animals come out.”
At this, the two small kids in the jeep began to cry. “Daddy,” the little girl sobbed. “I don’t wanna be eated by an elephant.” He father tried to calm her down as the two left in search of help.
An hour later, there were still no signs of help, and the sun had disappeared over the horizon. The little children had fallen asleep on their parent’s laps, and the old man with the wide-brimmed hat read his travel brochure, for the fourteenth time. The middle-aged couple in the back was talking in hushed whispers, but I could still make out snippets of their conversation.
“Where’s Adam...”
“Marie, he’ll be fine…”
“I’m just worried…”
I turned to my husband, who had a sad look in his eyes.
“We’ll be fine.”
“I hope your right.” My eyes felt heavy. As I stared at the stars above us, I thought of home.
That was the last thing I remember before drifting off into a peaceful slumber.
A awoke to the sound of high-pitched screaming. I jumped up with a start. The small children in the seat behind me were screaming in terror. Their frantic parents were trying to silence them. I turned around to see what the cause of their terror was. When I turned around, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
A lion stood a mere twenty feet away from the jeep. It had a long, silky mane, and a muscular body. It slowly prowled toward us, a cold look in its black, beady eyes.
The occupants of the safari vehicle sat frozen with terror, as the lion came closer, and then closer. Now I’m no lion expert, but from the sight of this one, I could tell it was hungry. As it got closer, only ten feet away now, everyone in the jeep backed away. The lion slowly continued to creep closer. One more step, and it would be upon us, and we would be its defenseless dinner.
With a sudden leap, the lion jumped up and disappeared. Where had it gone? My question was answered by a sudden, intense scratching at the roof of the jeep. The parents in the back clasped their hands over the children’s mouths to keep them from screaming. There was more scratching, and then a low grumbling, that rose into a great roar. I covered my ears, as did the other passengers.
I have heard plenty of loud sounds in my life, but nothing could compare to the monstrous roar of that lion. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I think my eardrums literally split.
The lion seemed to fumble around on the roof of the jeep for a bit, judging by the clawing and scratching and creaking of rusty metal above us. I couldn’t move, both paralyzed in fear, and afraid to make a peep, lest the beast hear me and decide it was time for dinner.
I held my breath as I heard the lion move the edge of the roof, preparing to jump off. If he were to turn around and see we were defenseless, he would eat us up before we could even scream.

A big, tan body sprang from the roof and landed a few feet away from the side of our vehicle. It turned around and looked at me with its beady, black eyes.
We seemed to almost have a staring contest, the lion and I. He stood a mere four feet from our jeep, looking at me. I stared into its eyes for what seemed like forever, until the lion slowly turned its back on the small crowd into the jeep and lurked back into the moonlight.
Half an hour later, we were still trying to recover from our terrifying encounter. But when we saw the shape of another jeep on the moonlit horizon, we began to cheer. The jeep drove up to the stranded tourists and Baruti opened the door, with Adam as his heels.
Everybody cheered. We were finally free.
We all piled into the van, grateful to be free at last from the terrifying African Savannah. Although terrifying, it was an amazing experience that I will never forget.”

Ben stared at the old woman, open mouthed.
“You had a run-in with a lion?”
“Yes. Like I said I will never forget that day. It was quite extraordinary.”
Ben marveled at the woman’s story. This one was even more amazing than the last one.
The two continued to chat, about their coffee, and Ben’s schoolwork, and the weather. As time sped by, the two got to know each other even better. Ben began to think of Mayra as a friend, not just a strange old woman. Every morning, he would meet the woman at the coffee shop, and every morning, the woman would tell him another one of her crazy stories. I became the highlight of Ben’s day, and he would look forward to their meetings every morning.
The next week, Ben met the old woman as usual at the shop. This morning, she had a very interesting story, and it became one of Ben’s favorites.
* * * * * * * * * *
“One time, before I was married,” Mayra began. “I decided I wanted to go on an adventure. Not a normal adventure, like a hike, or a trip to the city, but an original, extraordinary adventure. My friend, Scarlett, wanted to join me on my adventure, so we got together, trying to think of a creative adventure we could go on.
We started my making a checklist. Go on a road trip? No… not original enough. Scuba diving? No… there was no place to scuba dive around here. Climb a hill and have a picnic? No…too boring.
We sat at the kitchen table, trying to think of something we could do.
“Hey! I know,” Scarlett piped up. “My cousin owns a hot air balloon! We could borrow it from him and have a hot air balloon adventure!”
So that was how our adventure was born.
We drove to Scarlett’s cousin’s small far in rural California (We were living in Los Angeles at the time). When we arrived, we were greeted by the smell of manure. As we traveled down the dusty, gravel road, we spotted cows, pigs, and sheep. This didn’t seem like the place for a hot air balloon, but then we spotted it. A big, rainbow balloon, with a small basket, inflated behind a silo.
We parked the car, and knocked on the door of the old, gray farmhouse. We heard scuttling inside, and the door opened.
A tall, sweaty man with short blond hair answered the door. He was wearing dirty overalls and chewing on a piece of straw.
“Scarlett! How ’ya doing?” The man gave Scarlett a big, sweaty hug. I cringed.
“Hey, Bill.” Scarlett tried to wipe the dirt off of her yellow sundress as she spoke. “Is there any chance that we could borrow your balloon?”
“‘Course.” Bill motioned to the balloon behind the silo. “I just inflated it this morning.”
“Perfect.”
Scarlett and I followed Bill, past the barn and behind the silo, to the balloon.
The balloon was big and had rainbow stripes, with vibrant shades of orange, green, blue red, purple, and yellow. There was a wicker basket attached to the bottom of the balloon. It was small; it could only hold the two of us, with almost no room to spare. While Bill gave us instructions on how to work the balloon, Scarlett and I climbed in. When we were ready to take off, Bill ignited the flame to make the balloon rise, and we slowly began to float off the ground, and into the air.
Scarlett let out a squeal of delight as we rose higher and higher into the air. We waved to Bill, who was now the size of a paper clip. We watched the barn grow smaller and smaller, and a small suburban town appear way off in the distance.
The view from the balloon was breathtaking. We could see miles and miles of farmland, that evolved into suburbs, which evolved into cities. The sky was a bright blue, and clouds danced over our heads.
We floated peacefully for a while, talking and laughing. We sat and watched the city draw closer as we drifted along. We ate tuna and cucumber sandwiches while we enjoyed the view, the wind whipping our hair into our eyes.
Scarlett laughed as her long blonde hair whipped around her face. Leaning over the edge of the basket, we looked at all the houses below us. We could see kids playing jump rope, and a man, fishing in a small pond. There was a little boy riding his bike, and a girl, walking her dog on a leash. The city was not far from us now, and I was starting to worry.
“Scarlett,” I asked. “Do you think we are getting too close to the city?”
“No, we’re fine.” Scarlett dismissed my worry.
We continued to eat our sandwiches and talk, until I began to worry again.
“Scarlett, I really thing we should try to go up. The city is really close. I don’t want to run into a building.”
Scarlett agreed, and we began searching for a way to make the balloon rise. Meanwhile, the tall skyscrapers of the city slowly seemed to creep toward us. Soon we were too close for comfort, and we still didn’t have any idea how to steer the balloon.
“Is it even possible to steer this thing?” Scarlett asked me, a hint of worry in her voice.
Below us, Pedestrians were beginning to point at the low-flying balloon above them. It was dangerously low, and just it missed hitting a tall building as it floated through the streets.
Up in the balloon, Scarlett and I had begun to panic.
“Help! Help!” Scarlett called, leaning over the edge, trying to get someone’s attention. While she was yelling, I was trying to find a way to steer the vast balloon. I tried pulling ropes, but that only seceded in moving the balloon in unplanned directions. I tried to adjust the burner, but I couldn’t figure out how.
I gave up hope in trying to steer the balloon. But then, a thought occurred to me. Maybe we don’t need to focus on steering the balloon, maybe we need to focus on making the balloon rise.
“Scarlett! How do we make the balloon rise?” I asked her in desperation.
Scarlett turned to me. “Um, what did Bill say when he was telling us how to control the balloon?”
I shrugged, and racked my brain, trying to remember his instructions. I had been so excited to start, I hadn’t listened to Bill’s instructions on how to fly it!
The street below us was getting dangerously close. Thirty more seconds, and we would land on top of a car!
Think, Think, Think…the burner! No. The ropes? No. What could we use to rise into the air?

The balloon was almost on top of the cars in the street now. The cars were honking, their drivers panicking. A small swinging bag hanging off the balloon touched down on top of a red car.
That was it! The sandbags!

“Scarlett! Hurry! Drop all the sandbags!”
We both frantically ran around the edges of the balloon, cutting the ropes holding the sandbags. A heavy bag landed on one of the cars below us as we started to rise.
“Sorry!” I yelled sheepishly to the driver.
We drifted off, and Scarlett and I sighed in relief. The balloon floated up, and out of the city.
We landed a bumpy landing ten minutes later in a grassy field. We steadied the balloon and got out of the wicker basket, grateful to have our feet back on solid ground again.
Scarlett and I exchanged glances, then began to smile. Soon our smiles turned into chuckles, which turned into a full-on laugh. We were so grateful we had made it out of that chaotic balloon ride alive. It was a story we would be laughing about for years to come.”

I was laughing as Mayra finished her story.
“I haven’t been in a hot air balloon since.” She concluded. “Opportunities have come along, but I’m too scared to ever go up in one of those things again.”
We laughed for and I took a long sip of my coffee.
“Well, I’d better get going.” I told her. “We have exams today, so I can’t be late to class.”
“Alright,” Mayra said. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
She gave a little wave as I left the shop. I smiled at her and waved back. I couldn’t wait to hear another one of her stories tomorrow. Little did I know, that story may have been the woman’s last.
* * * * * * * * * *
The next morning, I arrived at the coffee shop bright and early, but to my surprise, Mayra wasn’t there. She was always early, so I went to go ask Melissa.
A look of concern- which was quite rare for Melissa-spread over her face when she saw me walk up to the counter.
“She’s not here, is she.” Melissa assumed. A sad crease in her forehead.
“No.” Ben replied. “Do you know where she is?”

“Maybe the rumors are true.” Melissa said. “I heard a couple talking about her this morning. They said she had a stroke last night and is in the hospital, and is in critical condition.”

Ben felt numb. Mayra? A stroke? It couldn’t be true. But he had to find out.
Without saying goodbye to Melissa, Ben ran out the door of the shop, ringing the little bell as he quickly pushed open the door.

He ran down four blocks until he reached State St. The big, brick hospital loomed over him. Without further ado, he dashed inside. There was a young receptionist at the desk, wearing a black blazer.

“Hello sir. May I help you?” Her cheery voice questioned.

“Tell me,” Ben panted, out of breath. “Has a woman named Mayra Reed checked into the hospital lately?”

The receptionist tapped her computer keys rapidly with her long, manicured fingernails as she searched for the woman in her records.

“Why yes.” She replied. “It says here Mayra Reed was checked into the hospital last night at 11:42 pm. It says she suffered from a stroke.”

Ben fell back into the nearest chair, his head in his hands.

“No, no, no… This can’t be happening.”

The receptionist looked at him with pity. “Mayra is in critical condition, and may not make it. I’m sorry. But the doctors say she is accepting visitors. Room 218.” The woman pointed to the elevators on her right.

The elevator ride was long and tedious, and as Ben rode up, he tried to prepare himself for what was to come.

The bleach-white walls of the hospital corridor seemed plain and boring, a place that Mayra would not have liked to stay in at all. Doctors and nurses pushed patient down the hall on stretchers, as Ben made his way to room 218.

Ben pushed open the door, and tears instantly welled up in his eyes, there lay Mayra, cold and frail. There were dozens of tubes and IVs connected to her, and her eyes were shut. A nurse sat at a seat next to her bed, taking her blood pressure. When she saw Ben enter, she got up to leave.

“I’ll give you two some privacy.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Ben sat down in the chair next to Mayra. Her thin eyelids covered her beautiful dark eyes, and her usually vivacious smile was now an emotionless straight line.

Ben grabbed her hand. It was hauntingly cold and bony, like a skeleton. A single tear rolled down his cheek, leading to more. Eventually an inevitable waterfall of tears rolled off Ban’s cheeks and landed on her soft blanket.

A raspy whisper broke through the sad silence in that tiny hospital room. It was Mayra, mustering up her final strength to say goodbye.

“Ben.” She gentle squeezed his hand. “I love you. Goodbye.”

With that, her hand went limp, and her pulse slowed to a halt.
* * * * * * * * * *

Mayra died at morning at 9:12 am. Her funeral was to be held the next day, at the cemetery not far from her home. I was asked to write a eulogy.

That night, I sat at my desk, trying to think of what to write. Mayra was such an extraordinary woman, it was impossible to put her life into writing. But I would try my best.

I began to write:

We met one day at a coffee shop. Though it seemed like just another ordinary day, it later proved to be the greatest day of my life. It was the day I met Mayra Reed.

As Ben woke up the morning of the funeral, the birds were chirping, and the sun was shining in little beams through Ben’s window, but his surroundings did not prove to help his mood. Ever since Mayra had died, he had felt no other emotion but despair.

Before he headed off to the funeral, he decided to grab a cup of coffee, for old times’ sake.

At the counter, Melissa gave him a reassuring hug, and handed him his usual coffee, free of charge.

“I’ll take two today please.” Ben said without looking up.

Melissa made him another cup, without question, and Ben grabbed the two coffee mugs off of the counter.

A young teenage girl sat in a chair by the window, near Ben’s usual spot. Ben walked over to her, and slid the mug of coffee to her.

“Thanks!” The girl said, surprised. “But why buy me coffee?”

Ben smiled, his first smile in a long time. “One time, a long time ago, a stranger paid for my cup of coffee” He told the girl, “and it made my day. My only request is that you do the same for someone else someday.”