I continued reading. Larry explained that before becoming homeless, he had worked for twenty-eight years at the courthouse. His job had involved processing marriage documents and helping couples complete their paperwork. But there was something else he had never told me. Whenever someone arrived without family or friends to witness their wedding, Larry volunteered. He had stood beside strangers who had nobody else. He had signed hundreds of marriage records, quietly making sure people didn’t feel alone on important days. I couldn’t believe it. The man I had known as a homeless stranger had once spent decades helping other people.

The letter instructed me to visit the courthouse and ask for a clerk named Margaret. He said she would understand why I needed to see the old marriage records. I folded the pages, grabbed my coat, and headed outside. The next morning, I entered the building where Larry and I had married. A woman behind the counter looked up, and when I mentioned his name, her expression immediately changed. “You were Larry’s wife?” she asked softly. Before I could answer, she stood up and said, “There’s something you really need to see.”