The folding table outside the local library was easy to overlook—just a few brown paper bags and a handwritten sign that read, “FREE LUNCH FOR ANYONE WHO NEEDS.” It wasn’t flashy, but it was a quiet act of generosity in a world that often moves too fast to notice.
At first, I walked past it without a second thought. But after a week of skipping breakfast and watching my bank balance dip to just a couple of dollars, I finally stopped. Inside one of the bags: a peanut butter sandwich, apple slices, and a granola bar. It wasn’t fancy, but it was exactly what I needed—something to ease both the hunger and the loneliness.
I went back the next day. And the day after that. Soon, it became part of my routine.
One Friday, something unexpected slipped from the lunch bag—a folded note written in blue ink. It read: “If you’re reading this, I think we’re connected in more ways than you know.”
There was no name, just curiosity.
A few days later, another note appeared: “You lived on Linden Street, right? Near the blue house?” My heart skipped a beat. That was where I grew up.
From then on, I made sure to be there every morning, more for the mystery than the meal. And one day, the message changed: “Tomorrow. Come early. I’ll be there.”
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