When the owners decided to sell the apartment I’d been renting, I packed my things and prepared to move on. Before handing over the keys, I cleaned every corner — the windowsills where my plants once sat, the tiny kitchen where I’d cooked quick meals after long days, even the closet that carried more of my worries than my clothes. It felt natural. That small flat held me during a complicated chapter of life, and leaving it spotless felt like my quiet thank-you.
The next morning, my phone rang. It was the landlady. My stomach tightened for a second, wondering if I’d missed something. But instead of complaints, her voice was full of surprise and gratitude. She thanked me for how clean the place was before asking, almost shyly, “Why were you so respectful? Most people leave the place in terrible shape.”
I laughed gently and told her the truth: I was raised not to walk away from anything — a home, a job, a moment — without leaving it better than I found it. That apartment wasn’t just a rental; it was the place that held my late nights, my doubts, my early mornings, and all the small steps it took to rebuild myself. Cleaning it wasn’t a chore — it was appreciation.
She went quiet for a moment before sharing something she’d been carrying: the previous tenant had left the place destroyed. Broken shelves, stained floors, cracked tiles, trash everywhere. No explanation. No responsibility. No reply to her messages. After that, she’d started believing that most renters simply didn’t care.
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