Mrs. Tulip wanted every neighbor to feel cared for. Yet next door, Mr. Grumpypants kept his curtains shut and his porch bare. His wife had died, and each day seemed to make him harder to reach. Mrs. Tulip stood outside the cheerful greenhouse, her purple petals drooping. Her black lace-up boots tapped the path. “A gift should help,” she said. “It must not feel like pity.” Inside, she studied the flower beds. A bright bloom felt wrong. A plant needed tending. Mr. Grumpypants might see it as another chore. Then she smelled honey and lavender from a cooling tray near the potting bench. The scent was warm and simple. She packed six golden cookies in a small tin. At his door, Mrs. Tulip almost turned back. Through the window, she saw him at a table set for one. He held a spoon over an empty cup. She raised her hand and knocked. The door opened a crack. Her next-door neighbor stared out beneath his white brows. “What?” he asked. Mrs. Tulip held out the tin. “I baked cookies. You do not have to talk. I thought you might want something with your tea.” Mr. Grumpypants looked at the tin. “Lavender?” “Yes. And honey.” His hand came out, rough and slow. He took it. “My wife made lavender biscuits,” he said. His face tightened. “They were never this shiny.” Mrs. Tulip smiled. “Then mine have too much honey.” For a moment, he looked as if he might shut the door. Instead, he opened it wider. A second cup sat upside down on the counter. “Tea is already steeping,” he said. “Come in before it gets bitter.” Mrs. Tulip stepped inside. Mr. Grumpypants set the tin between two cups, then pulled the second chair from the table. The cookies had not erased his grief. But he had made room for her beside it.