by The day tilted was a Tuesday in April. Caleb, twelve, came home from Louis’s funeral silent, clutching his best friend’s glove. Grief staggered, but by June he had a mission: earn money for a real headstone. He mowed lawns, walked dogs, ran a one-kid car wash—feeding his battered shoebox with hope.
Then the fire took it all. His scream—“I promised him”—still haunts me.
A week later, the community gathered. Louis’s uncle revealed a polished granite stone, paid in full. Donations poured in—over $12,000. Caleb chose a scholarship for kids who couldn’t afford baseball.
Months later, the council matched the fund. Caleb held Louis’s glove, whispering, “He’d be proud.”
Another envelope arrived: Keep going, kid.
And he will.
