The Morning That Changed Everything at a Quiet Laundromat

“Thank you,” I replied, rocking Willow gently.

When the woman left, it was just me, Willow, and rows of spinning machines. I loaded the washer—onesies, towels, my uniforms, even Willow’s little elephant blanket—and dropped in my last few quarters. Willow fussed softly, so I gathered her close and wrapped her in the only blanket within reach, one waiting to be washed. She settled quickly, her head tucked under my chin.

I sat down on a hard plastic chair. The rhythmic churn of the washer felt soothing. I told myself I’d just rest my eyes for a moment.

Then the world went dark.

Sunlight slanted across the floor when I opened my eyes again.

My heart leapt in panic. I checked Willow first—safe, still asleep, warm against me. Relief swept over me, but confusion followed quickly. How long had I been sleeping? Why was the laundromat so quiet?

Then I noticed the folding table beside me.

My laundry—the same heap of clothes I had stuffed into the washer—was now stacked neatly in organized piles. My uniforms folded crisply. Willow’s clothes arranged by size. Towels folded into smooth rectangles.

Someone had done all of it while I slept.

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