At 73, he walked with a cane and a slight limp from a knee injury he got back in ’84 during a training drill in Arizona. He still made his own coffee every morning and read the paper on the porch, just like his father used to.

Michael was the same age and lived on the other side of the country in a house he’d bought with his late wife back in the ’70s. A retired mechanic, he still tinkered with old engines in the garage when his knees allowed it.

His hands were rough, knuckles thick with arthritis, but he could still twist a wrench better than most 20-year-olds. He had three kids, five grandkids, and an old class photo tucked in a drawer in the kitchen — a photo he hadn’t looked at in years.

They met in school in 1961, back when life stretched out like an endless road, and summers felt like they’d never end.

Robert was loud and restless, always tapping his foot or flicking paper balls at the back of someone’s head. Michael was quiet, thoughtful, the kind of boy who lined up his pencils and never forgot his homework.

They were desk mates from the first day.

“You got a pencil?” Robert had asked, poking the boy beside him.

“I’m Robert. You can call me Bobby. Everybody does.”

“Michael,” he replied.

“Well, Mike, guess you’re stuck with me now.”

They weren’t the same, not really. But somehow, they fit.

After school, they’d walk home together, swinging their backpacks and throwing stones at street signs. When money was tight, Michael would split his apple in half and hand it over like it was nothing.

“Your mom packs this?” Robert would ask.

They whispered jokes during class and got separated by teachers more than once.

“Mr. Stevens, Mr. Carter — front row, now.”

“Do you think they’ll ever give up?” Robert whispered as they moved seats.

“They keep trying,” Michael muttered.

They promised each other everything — that they’d stay friends forever, that they’d be each other’s best men at their weddings, and that nothing would ever break them apart.

But life doesn’t care about promises made by 13-year-old boys.

In 1966, Robert’s father lost his job at the steel plant. Within a week, the whole Stevens family packed up and moved to Oregon. There was no time for goodbyes.

No phone in the house. No email. Just addresses scribbled on the back of envelopes that were lost or changed. Letters sent, but never answered

Michael stayed in town. Got a job fixing cars right out of high school. He married Linda, the girl who worked at the diner on 3rd Street. They had three kids, one too soon, one just right, and one they hadn’t planned for. He built a life in that town, one oil change and timing belt at a time.

Robert went the other way. He enlisted in the Army at 18 and served in Germany, Texas, and Alaska. He married a nurse he met on base and raised two boys. His life was always on the move, filled with different towns, new jobs, and old scars.

They buried their parents, said goodbye to friends, and watched the years stack up like winter coats.

Michael kept that photo. Sixth grade. All the boys standing crooked in front of a brick wall, hair parted, ears sticking out. There was Robert, front row, tongue out just as the shutter clicked.

Robert never forgot the nickname Michael had given him: “Rooster.” He never told anyone else. He still smiled every time he thought of it.

Then one lazy Saturday, decades later, Michael’s 19-year-old grandson, Tyler, was digging through boxes in the attic.

Michael looked up from his chair, adjusting his glasses. “That’s me. Sixth grade.”

“Dang. Y’all look like… tiny men in church clothes.”

Tyler laughed and snapped a picture of the photo, posting it on some alumni group online with a caption that read: “My grandpa Michael, class of ’61. Does anyone recognize the other kids?”

Halfway across the country, Robert’s granddaughter, Ellie, saw it while scrolling through her feed. She froze, stared, then grabbed her phone.

“Grandpa,” she said, voice shaking, “is this you?”

Robert squinted at the screen.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he whispered. “And that’s Mike.”

One message became five. Then a phone call.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” Michael said quietly.

“I never did,” Robert replied, his voice cracking.

They talked for over an hour. Then two. Laughter, tears, and long silences.

“Let’s meet,” Michael finally said.

They chose a community center halfway between their homes. Neutral ground. Familiar strangers again.

On the day of the meeting, Michael wore his cleanest shirt and used cologne for the first time in years. His hands shook the whole drive there. Robert arrived early, leaning on a cane, heart thudding like he was 17 again.

And when Michael walked in and saw him, older now, thinner, grayer, and moving a little slower, something inside him twisted.

Robert looked up.

“Mike?”

Robert’s lips trembled as he smiled.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room held its breath.

Their hands trembled. Their eyes filled with tears. They stood still, staring silently at one another.

And no one could have imagined what would happen next.

Robert took a slow breath, his hand still shaking slightly as he leaned on his cane. Michael didn’t move at first. His eyes were red, and his jaw was clenched like he was trying to hold something in.

“I was hoping you’d still like these,” Michael said, voice rough.

He pulled out an apple. A red one, just like the kind his mother used to pack in his lunch all those years ago.

Robert blinked, then laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle, but a deep, full laugh that cracked through the stillness of the room.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You still remember that?”

Michael smiled, finally stepping forward. “You think I forgot the kid who used to trade me chips for apple slices? I always thought I got the better deal.”

Robert shook his head, laughing through the tears.

They stood there for another second, then Robert nodded toward a nearby bench. “Let’s sit. My knees don’t forgive me the way they used to.”

They sat slowly, side by side, their shoulders brushing.

Michael looked at the apple, then split it clean down the middle with a pocketknife he pulled from his jeans. He handed half to Robert, then bit into his own.

No big speeches. No dramatic explanations. Just an apple, shared like they used to.

For a while, they chewed in silence.

“I thought about this moment a hundred times,” Robert said, finally. “I’d run through what I’d say if I ever saw you again. Apologies, long stories, all that. But now that you’re here…”