It was one of those bitter January afternoons when the cold didn’t just sting — it settled deep into your bones. The sky was a pale gray, and the streets felt muted, almost colorless. I had just finished my errands and was on my way home when something drew my eyes toward St. Peter’s Church.
I wasn’t religious, but that quiet place had always given me a strange sense of peace. What I didn’t know was that walking through those gates that day would change not just one life — but two.
At the bottom of the church steps sat a man in his late twenties. His coat was torn, his hands cracked from the cold, and his shoes were barely held together by twine. He looked exhausted — the kind of tired that went far beyond sleepless nights.
For a moment, I almost walked past like everyone else. But then he lifted his head. Our eyes met — and something inside me stopped.
I knelt down beside him. “Hi,” I said gently. “Need some help with those shoes?”
He blinked, startled. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I replied.
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