Every morning on my way to work at the library, I passed the same homeless man. Quiet, polite, always reading a newspaper. After losing my husband to cancer, small acts of kindness became routine — a coffee, a sandwich, a blanket.
One snowy morning, he looked at me with fear and whispered, “Please… don’t go home tonight.” I didn’t know why, but I listened and stayed with my sister.
The next day, he explained he’d known my husband and had been watching my house after seeing a stranger enter with a spare key. Police later confirmed someone had been secretly breaking in — and if I’d gone home that night, I would’ve walked in while he was still there.
The man disappeared soon after. But sometimes, a folded newspaper waits for me on the library steps — always opened to the obituaries. And I’m reminded that kindness, given freely, has a way of protecting us when we need it most.
