I never planned to move there—it wasn’t choice. It was survival.
Just three weeks after my husband passed away, I found myself drowning in bills I couldn’t pay. Rent, funeral costs, leftover debt—it all piled up until I had nothing left but a suitcase and a lease for a tiny apartment in a part of town people rarely talked about with kindness.
The rent was unusually low. I soon learned why.
On move-in day, a large man walked toward me from across the street—broad shoulders, tattoos down his arms, and heavy, worn sneakers. My heart raced. I froze.
Then he spoke.
“You alright, ma’am?”
His voice was low, steady, and kind.
“I… I don’t feel safe here,” I admitted.
He looked around, then nodded. “Most people don’t,” he said. “That’s why I stay out here. So folks like you don’t have to walk alone.”
Without asking, he grabbed one of my bags and walked me to my door. No small talk, no show. Just help.
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