I was wrapping up a long shift at the downtown sporting goods store when I first saw him. Exhausted from handling endless returns, malfunctioning registers, and the news that my daughter, Amy, had failed another math test, I stepped into the biting cold, pulling my coat tighter as I headed for the bus stop. A hot bath at home was all I could think about.
On the way, I passed a shawarma stand that had been part of the mall’s landscape for years. The air was thick with the delicious aroma of roasting meat and spices. Normally, I avoided the vendor—his permanent scowl was off-putting—but that night, something made me pause. A homeless man and his dog approached the stand, both visibly cold, weary, and painfully thin.
“Are you going to order something or just stand there?” the vendor barked, eyeing the man with suspicion.
The man hunched his shoulders, his dog pressing close for warmth. “Any chance I could get some hot water, sir?” he asked softly.
“Absolutely not!” the vendor snapped. “I’m not running a charity.”
I saw the man’s expression crumble. In that moment, my late grandmother’s words echoed in my mind: A single act of kindness can change a life. Acting on impulse, I stepped forward.
“Two coffees and two shawarmas, please,” I said quickly.
The vendor grunted, threw the orders together, and muttered the total. I paid, grabbed the food, and hurried after the man and his dog. His hands trembled as I pressed the bundle into them.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “God bless you.”
I smiled briefly and turned to leave, but he stopped me, fumbling in his pocket. He handed me a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it. “Read it at home,” he said with quiet intensity.
I tucked the note into my pocket, forgetting about it until the next day when I found it while sorting laundry. The message read: Thank you for saving my life. You don’t know this, but you saved it once before. Below was a date from three years ago and the name “Lucy’s Café.”
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