An American named Caleb lives in apartment 304 of my building in Tokyo. He's 29. From a small town in Kansas. This spring, he stopped coming out. He lost his job in February. In March, his fiancée moved out. He told me later that he spent most of April lying on the floor, scrolling through pictures of his friends back home. Weddings. Babies. New houses. Everyone moving forward except him. He stopped opening the curtains. He ate cereal for dinner. His phone sat face-down on the counter. Forty-seven missed calls from his grandmother. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. Especially not his family. One morning, at six o'clock, I went down to take out the garbage, and there was an old American man sitting on the stairs outside 304. Flannel shirt. Seed cap. A carry-on bag between his boots. He'd been there all night. His name is Vern. He's 82. He's Caleb's grandfather. When Caleb was little, he called his grandpa every Sunday night to talk about the Kansas City Chiefs. For twenty years, every Sunday. Then the Sundays stopped. So Vern got on a plane in Wichita and flew across the Pacific Ocean. He didn't tell anyone in Japan he was coming. He didn't even know how the doorbell worked. Caleb wouldn't open the door. So Vern sat down on the floor outside it. And he talked. Wheat prices. The weather back home. The neighbor's dog that keeps getting into the chickens. The Chiefs. Mostly the Chiefs. For two whole days, through a closed door, an 82-year-old man talked about football to nobody. On the third day, the door opened a crack. "Grandpa," Caleb said. "The Chiefs lost. I checked." "I know," Vern said. "I've been lying to you." Caleb laughed. He said it was the first time he'd laughed in two months. It hurt. Vern moved in for two weeks. He slept on a couch that was a foot too short for him. Somebody told him the Japanese word for good morning is "ohayo." He heard "Ohio." So every morning, an 82-year-old man from Kansas stood in my building's lobby and said "OHIO!" to every single person who walked by. Everyone said "ohayo" back. He believes, to this day, that Japan is a nation of Ohio fans. Kansas is the Sunflower State. Vern had packed an entire bag of sunflower seeds in his suitcase, "for the neighbors." He handed them out to everyone in the building. The old lady on the second floor gave him rice crackers. They have been trading snacks ever since. Neither of them knows the other's name. On day five, he tried to make biscuits in Caleb's toaster oven and set off the smoke alarm for the entire floor. He went door to door, bowing and saying "OHIO" as an apology. Vern never lectured him. Never told him to cheer up. On the first night, he said just one thing. "I'm not here to fix you. I'm here to sit with you." And every morning, he stuck a note on the refrigerator. Same heading every time, in big block capitals. STILL TRUE: "The sun came up. You're my grandson. I'm here." "The coffee in this country is too small. You're still my grandson." "You got out of bed. That counts." "You ate something that wasn't cereal. That counts double." "You laughed at me this morning. Don't think I didn't hear it." On day nine, Caleb found Vern's pill organizer in the bathroom. A big plastic one, the kind with a box for every day. On the lid, in his grandmother's handwriting: "VERN. TAKE THESE. OR I WILL KNOW." He called his grandmother. She told him what Vern had made her swear not to say. His heart is bad. Two stents. His doctor told him, flat out, no more long flights. Not at his age. It wasn't safe. He came anyway. Caleb found him in the kitchen, trying to work the rice cooker. "You could have died on that plane," Caleb said. Vern thought about it. "Well," he said. "I didn't. And you didn't either. So I'd say we're both ahead." Caleb sat down on the kitchen floor and cried like he was six years old. Vern lowered himself down next to him, slowly, knees cracking, and put one big hand on the back of his neck. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. On the morning Vern flew home, there was one last note on the fridge. STILL TRUE: "You are not the worst thing that happened to you. Bad years end. I've had three. 1959, I lost my daddy. 1985, I lost the farm. 2003, I lost your Uncle Danny. I'm still here. I still laugh at stuff. You are loved by people who would cross an ocean for you. I'm the proof. Call your grandma." When Vern came down to the lobby with his bag, he stopped. The whole building was there. The old lady from the second floor. The salaryman from the fifth. Two kids in school uniforms. The building manager. They had planned it. All at once, very loudly, they shouted: "OHIO!" Vern stood there in the lobby and cried. Then he took off his seed cap, held it to his chest, and shouted it right back at them. "OHIO!" Caleb got a new job in August. He opens his curtains every morning now. Last week I heard him say "Ohio" to the lady on the second floor. She gave him a rice cracker. The note is still on his fridge. So if you're reading this on a hard night, here's what's still true. The sun is going to come up. You are not the worst thing that happened to you. Bad years end. Somebody out there would cross an ocean for you. Even if they haven't had to yet. And call your grandma.