I also looked out for Nia, who ran the nearby laundromat. She was quiet, worked long hours, and rarely took breaks. After I stopped a break-in attempt at her shop one night, she began leaving me pastries on my doorstep, along with a handwritten note:
“You watch out for people. So now we’ll watch out for you.”
A few weeks later, my old landlady—who had once sold the building—called out of the blue. The new owners had backed out, and she was offering me my former flat again. Same rent. No hidden fees. No catch. I moved back in, overwhelmed with gratitude.
Taped to the door was an envelope from Nia. Inside was a prepaid grocery card and another note:
“Some things come back to you.”
I stayed. Got promoted at work. Finally signed up to lead those weekend writing workshops I’d always dreamt of. One evening, a teenage student I’d barely heard speak handed me a folded note after class.
“I used to think nobody saw me. But I think you do.”
Kindness isn’t loud.
It’s in umbrellas left behind on rainy benches.
In clean flats offered back without a price hike.
In pastries, notes, and silent acknowledgment.
It leaves a trail—and if you follow it long enough, it just might lead you home.
