Rebecca coped with her depression by organizing her life so there’d be no time for it. She’d been doing that for years since the divorce. Until one persistent stranger decided to interfere with her strict, lonely routine. Little did Rebecca know, he’d become the one person she’d end up missing.
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In the dim light of her bedroom, Rebecca lay on her back, her gaze locked on the digital clock beside her bed.
The numbers read 6:29. She took a steady breath, waiting for the clock to change.
As soon as it clicked to 6:30, the alarm went off, but Rebecca was quick to silence it.
She sat up, threw the covers aside, and rose from the bed with practiced precision.
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First things first—Rebecca smoothed out her sheets, arranging every corner until the bed looked crisp and perfectly made.
She walked into the bathroom, where everything had its place.
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Her toothbrush rested neatly in a holder, the soap was placed just so in a dish, and a small mirror hung over the sink.
Rebecca took a moment to look at her own reflection, her expression calm but distant.
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She was forty-seven, with lines of experience and resilience etched onto her face.
Seven years had passed since her divorce, and though the pain had dulled, it had left behind a scar.
Her response to the heartache had been order, discipline, and strict routine. These things brought her a sense of control, something solid to hold onto when life felt chaotic.
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At exactly seven o’clock, Rebecca laced up her running shoes, plugged in her headphones, and stepped outside, ready for her morning jog.
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For years, these runs had been her escape, a time to strengthen her body while listening to audiobooks that exercised her mind.
It was her shield against sadness, each step a way to push forward.
But for the past month, something had started to disrupt her carefully designed routine—a neighbor named Charlie, who seemed determined to break through her guarded solitude, one cheerful “good morning” at a time.
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Charlie’s house was right across the street, and every morning, just as Rebecca fell into her steady pace, he would come bounding out, waving his arms like an enthusiastic kid, barely managing to keep his sneakers on.
This morning was no different. Rebecca spotted him out of the corner of her eye as he hopped down his steps, shoving his shoelaces into his sneakers in a hurry to catch up.
She sighed, rolling her eyes and speeding up, hoping he’d get the hint this time. But, as always, Charlie wouldn’t be discouraged so easily.
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“Rebecca! Wait, it’s me!” he called, his voice cheerful as he jogged over, waving with one hand and holding his side with the other.
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Rebecca pretended not to hear him and kept her eyes straight ahead, her footsteps rhythmic and focused.
But Charlie was determined, and soon he was jogging alongside her, albeit slightly out of breath.
“You’re fast… as always,” he managed between pants, giving her a crooked smile as he tried to match her pace.
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Rebecca pulled out one of her earbuds and glanced at him, feigning surprise. “Oh, hi, didn’t see you there,” she replied, with just a hint of annoyance.
She had her whole morning planned out, and chatting with her neighbor hadn’t been on the agenda.
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“No problem, totally my fault for being late,” Charlie said, his breath still coming in gasps.
Rebecca could see he was trying hard to keep up, yet he looked pleased just to be running alongside her.
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She gave a small, dismissive nod and was about to put her earbud back in when Charlie chimed in again.
“Hey, want to hear a joke?” he asked eagerly, his voice carrying that unbreakable enthusiasm she found both irritating and oddly endearing.
“You’d save more breath if you talked less while running…” she muttered, but he ignored her suggestion.
“Why did the scarecrow get a promotion?” he asked, grinning.
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Rebecca sighed. She knew better than to indulge him, but she couldn’t help herself.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because he was outstanding in his field!” Charlie delivered the punchline with a broad, triumphant grin, his eyes bright with expectation.
Rebecca paused, rolling the joke over in her mind, and against her better judgment, a chuckle escaped her lips.
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She quickly tried to stifle it, but it was too late. Charlie had seen her reaction, and his face lit up with delight.
“See? You smiled! I’m getting better at this,” he noted with satisfaction, practically glowing at his small victory.
Rebecca shook her head, but her smile lingered, however brief.
“I’ll give it to you, that one wasn’t… too bad,” she conceded, still pretending to be unimpressed.
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Charlie threw a fist in the air, grinning as if he’d won a prize.
“Finally! Progress!” he cheered, laughing.
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Rebecca picked up her pace again, leaving Charlie struggling to keep up.
Each morning, Rebecca found herself looking forward to the sight of Charlie bounding out of his house with his untied sneakers and his cheerful grin.
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His silly jokes that once made her roll her eyes had grown on her, and she found herself smiling more often, even laughing aloud, which was something she hadn’t done in a long time.
More surprising to her, she had started to slow her pace—just a bit—so they could talk longer.
Charlie’s enthusiasm and light-heartedness had a way of softening the strict walls Rebecca had built around herself.
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He had even managed to slip past her strict routine, something she thought no one could do.
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As she laced up her shoes and looked out the window, Rebecca found herself glancing at his house, as she had started doing most mornings. Today, though, something felt different.
The door to his house was shut tight, and there was no sign of him.
She checked her watch and waited, telling herself not to worry. But after a few more minutes passed, doubt crept in.
This wasn’t like Charlie—he was always so excited to join her.
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She hesitated, feeling a strange mix of concern and disappointment, but finally, she walked over to his house and knocked on the door.
She tapped her foot as she waited, glancing around and hoping he’d just forgotten to wake up. But there was no answer.
She rang the doorbell again, then leaned close to the window, peeking inside, but the rooms were still and quiet.
“Charlie! Are you there?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. “Come on, you’re missing our jog!”
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She hoped he’d suddenly appear, laughing and apologizing for being late. But all she heard was silence.
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Just then, an elderly voice spoke from nearby.
“Who’s shouting out here?” Startled, Rebecca turned to see Mrs. Lewis, an elderly woman who lived next door to Charlie, watching her with curiosity.
“Oh, Mrs. Lewis,” Rebecca said, feeling embarrassed for the outburst.
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“I usually run with Charlie, but he didn’t show up today. Maybe he overslept,” she added, her voice quieter, almost as if she were speaking to herself.
She felt a pang of worry, wondering if maybe he simply didn’t want to run with her anymore.
Mrs. Lewis shook her head, looking concerned.
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“Overslept? Oh no, dear. He was taken to the hospital by ambulance last night.”
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Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat.
“The hospital? What happened to him?”
Mrs. Lewis sighed, clearly upset herself.
“I’m not sure. I only saw the ambulance pull up and take him away. It’s such a shame. Poor man lives alone with no one to watch over him.”
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Rebecca stood there, processing the news, a wave of guilt and worry washing over her.
She had only known Charlie for a short while, but in that time, he had somehow become a part of her life, someone she looked forward to seeing.
Without a second thought, Rebecca thanked Mrs. Lewis, turned around, and headed back home to grab her purse and keys. There was only one hospital nearby, and she needed to find him.
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Rebecca felt her heart racing as she walked through the bustling halls of the hospital, the antiseptic smell filling her nose and making her even more anxious. She took a steadying breath as she approached the reception desk, hoping to sound calm.
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“Good morning,” she said, her voice just a bit shaky. “I’m looking for a patient who was admitted last night. His name is Charlie.”
The receptionist raised an eyebrow, looking over her glasses. “Do you have a last name, ma’am?”
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Rebecca felt herself blush. “No, sorry… I only know him as Charlie. We just… met recently,” she admitted, realizing how strange it must sound.
The receptionist gave her a slightly skeptical look. “You do know that only family or close relatives are typically allowed to visit patients, right?”
“I… I’m his girlfriend,” she blurted, surprising even herself.
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The receptionist’s eyes softened as a small smile crept onto her face. “Girlfriend, huh?” She tapped a few keys on her computer, a slight twinkle in her eyes.
“You might as well learn his last name, then. You’ll need it if he’s going to be around,” she said with a wink.
“Charlie Sanders. Room 113. I’ll take you there.”
Rebecca felt her heart flip as she whispered a quick “thank you” and followed the receptionist down the hall.
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Before they even reached the room, she could hear Charlie’s familiar laughter, his voice carrying through the doorway as he shared a joke with someone in the room.
The receptionist rapped gently on the wall to announce Rebecca’s arrival.
“Charlie, there’s a lady here to see you… she says she’s your girlfriend,” she added, a hint of playfulness in her voice as she glanced at Rebecca.
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Charlie’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw her. “Yes, yes! Rebecca, come on in. Of course, she’s here for me,” he said with a grin, gesturing for her to come closer.
Rebecca felt a rush of relief as she walked over to sit beside him.
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Charlie looked tired but cheerful, as if the hospital gown and the IV were just minor inconveniences in his day.
She glanced at him, both relieved and exasperated. “Girlfriend, huh?” Charlie teased, raising his eyebrows playfully.
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Rebecca gave him a mock-scowl. “I had to say something to get in here, didn’t I? And you missed our jog this morning! What happened?” she asked, a touch of concern creeping into her voice.
Charlie sighed, shifting slightly in the bed.
“Well… it’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but those jogs? Not exactly great for my health.”
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Rebecca’s face fell. “What do you mean?”
He glanced down, looking a little sheepish.
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“I have a heart condition. Doctor’s orders are to avoid anything too intense… like trying to keep up with you,” he admitted with a wry smile.
Her heart sank, and she shook her head in disbelief.
“Charlie, why didn’t you tell me? You shouldn’t have been running at all!”
Charlie gave a small, lopsided smile.
“Well… if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have seen you. I wouldn’t have gotten to know you.”
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Rebecca felt her face soften, a mix of surprise and affection warming her heart.
“So you were willing to risk your health just to talk to me?” she asked quietly, looking him in the eye.
He nodded, his expression turning serious.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“I’ve watched you every morning, jogging at the same time, like clockwork. I’ve seen you give things to charity, help the neighbors. You’re… you’re someone special, Rebecca.”
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Rebecca felt a lump form in her throat, his words striking her in a way she hadn’t expected.
She reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently.
“Charlie,” she said, her voice soft, “you don’t need to run to spend time with me. How about dinner at my place instead?”
Charlie’s face broke into a warm smile.
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“Now that sounds a lot safer for my heart,” he replied, his eyes shining. “I think the doctor would definitely approve.”
Rebecca chuckled, feeling the tension in her chest ease as they shared a smile.
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“I hope so,” she murmured, looking forward to an evening that didn’t involve heart-stopping runs but instead a quiet meal with someone who, in a short time, had become surprisingly important to her.
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Old Woman Brought Son’s Favorite Pastry to His Grave & Found Note Saying ‘Thank You’ upon Her Return – Story of the Day
For Nancy her son Henry was everything, she never imagined her life without him. It had been 23 years since the horrible accident that took Henry’s life. Every year on that day, she took his favorite pie to his grave to honor his memory. But this year, everything was about to change.
For 23 years, Nancy, now 61, never missed a single day on this date. She baked her late son’s favorite pie and took it to his grave every year since.
The pie, a simple yet delicious apple and cinnamon creation, had been Henry’s favorite since childhood.
The scent of apples and cinnamon brought back memories of when Henry was little, running into the kitchen, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the pie.
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It was his favorite dessert, and baking it had become a tradition they both cherished.
Since Henry’s tragic accident at 17, this ritual had been Nancy’s way of keeping his memory alive.
It gave her a sense of connection to him, like she was still doing something special for her boy. Losing him had been the hardest thing she had ever gone through. The pain of that day never left her.
Even though the years had passed, her grief remained, only softened by time and the small comfort this tradition brought her.
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On this particular day, just like every year before, Nancy carefully carried the freshly baked pie to the graveyard.
The weight of the dish felt heavier, as it always did when she walked toward Henry’s resting place. The grave was neat and covered in flowers, a sign of how much he was still loved.
The stone had become smoother over the years, as she had often run her fingers over it, lost in her memories.
Nancy knelt, placing the pie gently on the gravestone. Her heart ached as she began to speak, her voice quiet, as though Henry might somehow hear her.
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“Henry, I hope you’re at peace, my love. I miss you every day. I baked your favorite pie again. Remember how we used to bake it together? You’d always sneak a taste before it was done.”
She smiled, but her eyes were misty with tears. “I wish we could do that one more time.”
The familiar sorrow welled up inside her, but Nancy had learned over the years to push through the tears.
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She wiped her eyes quickly and managed a small smile. After a few more moments of silence, she kissed her fingers and touched the top of the gravestone as she said her quiet goodbye.
Then, with a heavy but comforted heart, she turned and walked away, knowing she’d be back next year, just like always.
The next day, as part of her routine, Nancy made her way back to Henry’s grave to clean up the remains of the pie.
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Usually, by the time she returned, the pie was either untouched or spoiled by the weather, a quiet reminder of her son’s absence.
She had always found it a bittersweet comfort, knowing the pie stayed where she left it as if waiting for him.
But today, as she approached the grave, something felt different. Nancy’s heart skipped a beat when she saw that the plate was clean—completely empty. For a moment, she stood frozen in disbelief.
Then, she noticed something else. Resting on the plate was a small piece of paper, folded in half.
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Nancy’s hands trembled as she picked up the note. Her breath caught in her throat as she unfolded it.
The handwriting was shaky, as though whoever had written it had struggled to form the letters. The simple words read: “Thank you.”
Her heart pounded with confusion and anger.
“Who would take Henry’s pie?” she muttered under her breath, clutching the note tightly. “This was for my son. No one had the right to touch it!”
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Her private ritual, her way of honoring and remembering her son, had been invaded by a stranger.
She felt violated, as if someone had stolen a piece of her grief.
With her emotions swirling—part outrage, part confusion—Nancy left the cemetery, her mind set on finding the person who had taken her son’s pie. She had to know who had done this, and why.
Determined to catch the culprit, Nancy decided she would take matters into her own hands. She couldn’t let someone continue to disturb the way she honored Henry. So, she devised a plan.
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That night, she baked another of Henry’s favorite pies, the same apple and cinnamon recipe she had been making for over two decades.
The next morning, with renewed resolve, she placed the freshly baked pie on Henry’s grave, just like before, but this time she wasn’t leaving.
She found a large oak tree nearby and hid behind it, close enough to see the grave but far enough to not be noticed.
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The warm aroma of the pie drifted through the air, filling the quiet cemetery.
Time passed slowly as Nancy watched and waited, her heart racing in anticipation.
An hour later, she spotted movement. A small figure cautiously approached the grave. Nancy squinted, leaning forward to get a better look.
It wasn’t the greedy thief she had imagined. No, this was something entirely different.
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A young boy, no older than 9, with ragged clothes and dirt smudged on his face, moved toward the pie with hesitant steps.
Nancy’s heart tightened as she watched him. The boy didn’t immediately take the pie.
Instead, he knelt by the grave and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small scrap of paper and a dull pencil. His hand trembled as he carefully scribbled something on the paper, his brow furrowed with concentration.
It was clear the boy struggled with writing, but he took his time, making sure each word was legible.
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Nancy’s heart softened as she saw him write “Thank you” on the paper, just like before. He wasn’t a thief. He wasn’t someone disrespecting Henry’s memory. He was just a hungry child, grateful for the kindness of a pie left behind.
The anger that had once consumed Nancy melted away in an instant. She realized this boy wasn’t stealing; he was surviving. He was in need, and her son’s favorite pie had somehow brought him comfort.
As the boy began to pick up the pie, his small hands shaking, Nancy stepped out from her hiding spot.
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The rustle of leaves under her feet made him freeze, wide-eyed. Startled, he dropped the pie, and it tumbled onto the grass. His face paled, and he backed away, looking terrified.
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry!” the boy cried, his voice trembling with panic. “I was just so hungry, and the pie was so good. Please don’t be mad.”
Nancy’s heart softened instantly. The sight of him—thin, dirty, and scared—erased any trace of anger she had felt before.
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She knelt beside him, speaking gently, her voice as comforting as she could make it. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not mad at you, Where are your parents?” she said, her tone soothing. The boy stayed silent and shook his head. “What’s your name?” Nancy asked another question understanding that the boy had nowhere to go.
“Jimmy,” he muttered, still avoiding her eyes, ashamed of what he had done.
“Well, Jimmy,” Nancy smiled softly, trying to reassure him, “it’s okay. You don’t have to steal pies. If you’re hungry, all you had to do was ask.”
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Jimmy looked up at her, his lips quivering as he tried to speak. “I didn’t mean to steal,” he said, his voice small and shaky. “I just… I don’t get to eat much, and that pie was the best thing I’ve ever had.”
Nancy’s heart ached for him, her mind flooded with thoughts of how different this boy’s life must be.
The hunger in his eyes reminded her of her own son, Henry, when he would eagerly wait for that first bite of her freshly baked pie.
But Henry never had to worry about where his next meal would come from. Jimmy, on the other hand, looked like he had been living with hunger for a long time.
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“Come with me,” Nancy said after a moment of thought. She stood up and reached out her hand to him. “I’ll bake you a fresh pie, just for you.”
Jimmy’s eyes widened in disbelief, as if he couldn’t trust his own ears. “Really?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of hope and doubt.
Nancy nodded, her heart filled with a strange but comforting warmth. “Yes, really. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Slowly, Jimmy reached out and took Nancy’s hand.
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She led him back to her home, the boy walking beside her in silence, his eyes darting around as if he wasn’t sure if this was all real. Nancy’s heart swelled with the thought of what she was about to do.
Baking had always been her way of expressing love, and now, after years of baking for a son she could no longer see, she was about to bake for someone who truly needed it.
When they reached her cozy kitchen, Nancy set to work, rolling out the dough, slicing the apples, and adding the perfect amount of cinnamon—just as she had done so many times before.
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Jimmy watched her quietly from the corner of the kitchen, his eyes wide as he followed every move she made.
The smell of the pie began to fill the room, warm and comforting, like a hug from a long-lost friend.
Once the pie was baked, Nancy placed it in front of Jimmy. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said softly.
“This one’s all for you.”
Jimmy hesitated for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. But then he grabbed a slice and took a bite. His face lit up with joy, his eyes sparkling as he chewed.
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“This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” he said, his mouth still full. He ate with such happiness that it brought tears to Nancy’s eyes.
She watched him in silence, thinking about how something as simple as a pie could bring so much comfort to someone.
As Jimmy devoured the warm slices with obvious delight, Nancy couldn’t help but think of Henry.
She had always dreamed of seeing her son eat his favorite pie again, of watching him enjoy it the way he used to when he was a child.
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But now, in some strange and unexpected way, she was sharing it with another boy who needed it just as much.
Watching Jimmy eat, Nancy felt a deep sense of peace wash over her. Perhaps this was how it was meant to be.
Maybe fate had brought Jimmy into her life for a reason. By feeding him, by offering him kindness when he needed it most, she was honoring Henry’s memory in a way she had never imagined.
For the first time in years, Nancy felt that her grief had led her to something beautiful—a connection, a purpose that gave new meaning to her life.
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Maybe, just maybe, this was Henry’s way of sending her a message—that love and kindness should always find their way back to those in need.
Nancy smiled as she watched Jimmy finish the last slice of pie, her heart full of warmth and gratitude.
She had found an unexpected connection in the most unlikely place, and it filled her soul in a way that nothing else had in years.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: Martha was always quiet and smiling. No matter how hard or small the task, she was always ready to help. One of her colleagues, Chelsea, often took advantage of Martha’s kind nature by asking her to do her work for her. But this time, Chelsea unintentionally did Martha a favor.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
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