It was one of those evenings when tiredness feels heavier than the cold itself. The day had been long—work demands, family concerns, and the quiet weight of responsibilities that never seem to pause. All I wanted was to get home and shut the world out for a while. That’s when I noticed him standing near a shawarma stand.
He was homeless, bundled in worn layers, with a dog pressed tightly against him for warmth. His eyes weren’t fixed on passing people. They were fixed on the food. Not with entitlement, but with resignation. I didn’t plan to stop. I nearly didn’t. But when he asked the vendor for nothing more than hot water, something about the humility of that request made me slow down.
I ordered two shawarmas and two coffees. I handed them to him without much thought, expecting the moment to end there. As I turned to leave, he quietly slipped a folded note into my hand and asked me to read it later. I nodded, tucked it into my coat, and walked on—unaware that the small piece of paper would reopen a memory I didn’t even know I still carried.
That night unfolded like any other. Homework at the kitchen table. Casual complaints about the day. Familiar routines. The note stayed forgotten in my pocket until the next afternoon. When I finally unfolded it, my hands went cold.
He thanked me for saving his life. Then he wrote that I had already done so once before.
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