Dame Maggie Smith was one of the greatest actresses of her time. Whether you knew her from *Harry Potter* or *Downton Abbey*, her absence will be deeply felt.
Keep reading to find out about her last public appearance just a few months ago!
Actress Dame Maggie Smith, best known for her role as Professor McGonagall in *Harry Potter* and Violet Crawley in *Downton Abbey*, has passed away at the age of 89, her family shared.
Her sons, Toby Stephens and Chris Larkin, released a joint statement saying, “It is with great sadness we have to announce the death of Dame Maggie Smith.”
The statement continued, “She passed away peacefully in the hospital early this morning, Friday 27th September. A very private person, she was surrounded by friends and family at the end. She leaves behind two sons and five loving grandchildren who are heartbroken by the loss of their amazing mother and grandmother.”
The family also thanked the hospital and its staff, saying, “We want to thank the wonderful staff at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital for their care and kindness during her final days.”
The family ended the statement by saying, “We are grateful for all your kind messages and support and ask that you respect our privacy at this time.
The news of her death is a big surprise. The last time she was seen in public was last year at the Wimbledon men’s singles finals. She dressed up nicely for the event, wearing a navy blue shirt dress with a chic dotted pattern. She paired it with black leather heels and a blue overcoat. She also carried a matching navy leather bag over one shoulder.
Her hair was styled in soft waves, and she wore pink lipstick to finish her look.
Since it was rare for the actress to make public appearances, fans were naturally surprised to see her out.
When pictures of her were posted online, people were happy to see her. One person commented, “So elegant!” Another said, “You look so beautiful,” and someone simply added, “Amazing.”
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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