MitchAlbomsatacrossfromMorrieinthesmallstudy,theafternoonsuncastinglongshadowsacrossthefloor.Theoldman'svoicewassoftbutsteady,hiswordscarryingtheweightofalifetimeoflessons.Theairsmelledfaintlyofbooksandthelavender-scentedlotionMorrieusedtosoothehisachinghands.Outside,theleavesrustledinthebreeze,agentlereminderoftimepassing—bothtooquicklyandnotfastenough.Mitchleanedforward,hisnotebookopenbutforgottenforthemoment,captivatedbythewayMorrie'seyesstillsparkledwithhumorandwisdom,evenashisbodybetrayedhim.Here,inthisquietspacebetweenbreaths,theyfoundthetruthsthatmattered.
