I almost didn’t stop. The cold was vicious that night, the kind that crawls under your clothes and settles into your bones. Snow piled up along the sidewalks, and the wind made every step feel like work. Near the shawarma stand, I saw him sitting low to the ground, wrapped in layers of worn fabric that barely counted as a coat. A small dog was tucked into his chest, shaking just as badly as he was. When he asked for a cup of hot water and was yelled away, something inside me twisted. I ordered food without thinking, two shawarmas and two coffees, and handed them over quickly, embarrassed by my own emotion.
He didn’t thank me the way people usually do. There was no exaggerated gratitude, no tears, no speeches. He just looked at me calmly, almost knowingly, and held out a folded piece of paper. “Read it at home,” he said softly. His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than expected, and then I walked away, convincing myself it was just a kind gesture returned with a meaningless note. Life swallowed the moment whole. Work deadlines, traffic, noise, screens. The memory faded faster than I cared to admit.
The next evening, while emptying my coat pockets, I felt the paper. It was thinner than I remembered, creased and soft from being handled many times. I unfolded it slowly. The handwriting was careful but uneven, as if written by someone whose hands weren’t always steady. The note began with my name. I froze. There was no signature yet, just words that felt too precise, too personal. He wrote about the way I hesitated before ordering, the way I avoided eye contact, the way I tucked my scarf tighter when I handed him the food.