23/07/2025
It was bitterly cold—26°F with a sharp wind cutting through my coat, and snowflakes biting my cheeks. All I wanted was to get home, soak in a hot bath, and drink some cocoa.
Then I noticed him.
Huddled by the shawarma stand, wrapped in tattered cloths, with a scruffy dog nestled beside him for warmth. His voice was soft and shaky as he asked,
“Just a cup of hot water, please.”
The vendor snapped without looking up, “GET OUT OF HERE.”
The dog whimpered, and something inside me broke.
I remembered my grandmother’s words: “Kindness costs nothing, but it can change everything.”
So I stepped forward.
“Two coffees and two shawarmas, please.”
The vendor scowled but handed them over. I gave the food and drinks to the man. “Here.”
As I turned away, he called out,
“Wait.”
He handed me a folded, worn piece of paper.
“Read it at home,” he said with a mysterious smile.
I stuffed it into my coat pocket and got swept up in the rush of life—commutes, emails, and chaos—and forgot about it.
Until the next night, when I found the note while emptying my pockets.
The paper was crumpled, the ink faded.
But the words inside made me stop dead in my tracks.
I read them twice and whispered,
“Is this for real?”
