I never set out to become part of her story. I was just her neighbor. My days were full of errands, work, and ordinary life. But each time I saw her sitting alone, something in me stirred. It wasn’t guilt. It was recognition—the kind that grows with age, as we begin to understand how easily a person can fall through the cracks.
I didn’t know her story, but I could feel the absence in her life. One day, I brought her a plate of leftovers. Just a simple meal, nothing fancy. She nodded her thanks but said very little.
Soon it became a rhythm—a plate of food every day for four years.
Not because she asked. Not because I expected anything in return. Just because it felt right.
Quiet Judgments, Louder Purpose
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