The walk to my apartment was silent, each step filled with doubts. What if I’d made a mistake? When we arrived, I handed him a towel and some old clothes and pointed him to the bathroom. “Shower’s down the hall. I’ll make us dinner.”
As the water ran, I tried to shake off the weight of my decision. But when he emerged, clean and dressed in the clothes I’d lent him, I froze. He wasn’t just another stranger—he was someone I recognized.
His face was sharp, striking—too familiar. And then it hit me. “Roman,” I whispered.
His gaze met mine, calm and steady. “Yeah. It’s me.”
Memories flooded back. Roman had been a line cook at the diner nearly twenty years ago. He’d been easygoing, charming, and well-liked. And then came the scandal—money had gone missing from the register, and Roman was caught with it in his bag. The entire diner had turned against him.
“You stole that money,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “You cleared out the register and tips.”
His face darkened, but he didn’t flinch. “No, I didn’t. I’ve told everyone—I was set up. I lost everything because of something I didn’t do.”
My mind reeled. I’d believed the worst of him back then, just like everyone else. Carl, the diner owner, had been so sure, and the evidence had seemed undeniable. But now, looking into Roman’s eyes, doubt crept in.
“You have to believe me,” Roman’s voice trembled. “I had a good job, a steady income. Why would I risk all that? Carl found the money in my bag because someone planted it there.”
Miranda. The name slammed into me like a wave. She’d been a waitress back then—quiet, distant. She’d left the diner days after Roman was fired. Could she have been the one to set him up? The thought gnawed at me.
“I didn’t realize…” My voice faltered. “Have you been on the streets all this time?”
He shrugged, his pain speaking louder than words. We sat at the table, and Roman shared the years of hardship he’d endured since being fired. Bills had piled up, opportunities had vanished, and every setback had led to another. And then he’d had nothing left.
The guilt was unbearable. I had believed the worst without even questioning it. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I should have helped you back then.”
“You’re helping me now,” he said softly. “That counts.”
The next morning, I made a decision. I called Carl, pleaded Roman’s case, and told him about my suspicions regarding Miranda. Carl was skeptical but reluctantly agreed to let Roman work a trial shift at the diner.
That day, watching Roman work, I saw a quiet determination and gratitude in his every move. He approached the job with a humility and dedication that humbled me.
Sometimes, life hands you a chance to make things right. Roman had spent years suffering for a crime he didn’t commit, but that night, by the dumpster, fate had given me the opportunity to change his story—and my own. Compassion doesn’t erase the past, but it can help rewrite the future.