After my father died, I found comfort in visiting his grave. One evening, as I stood there with lilies in hand, I saw a blind woman standing alone, her face etched with sorrow.
“Need help?” I asked gently.
She nodded. “My sons left me. Would you walk me home?”
Her name was Kira. Her husband’s grave was fresh, and her anger at her sons was clear. “Samuel warned me about them,” she muttered.
Her home was lovely, filled with photos of her and Samuel traveling. Over tea, she said, “He didn’t trust the boys. There are cameras everywhere.”
The next day, her sons accused me of stealing. At the police station, Kira demanded they check the footage.
The video showed the real thieves—her own sons.
As they were arrested, Kira took my hand. “You’re the kindness I needed,” she said.
Sometimes, helping a stranger changes everything.
