I met a county worker the next day, and she handed me a small, neatly taped box.
There was no money inside. No heirlooms. Just a folded letter with shaky handwriting:
You fed me food, but more than that—you fed me dignity. You gave me back my humanity. You gave me a reason to keep living.
Thank you for being my family when the world forgot me.”
I read those words over and over through blurred eyes.
That night, I sat in the same spot where she used to sit. Not out of sadness, but out of reverence—for a woman who had so little, yet left behind something so powerful.
Kindness Doesn’t Need Applause
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