Later that evening, while unpacking groceries, I reached for the receipt to toss it. That’s when I saw it: a quick, uneven scrawl on the back. “Check your back seat.” My heart skipped. The words didn’t make sense. Was it a joke? A warning? I stood still, staring, unease creeping in.
Keys in hand, I hesitated at the door. Curiosity—and a flicker of fear—nudged me outside. The night was quiet, the street bathed in amber light. I unlocked the car, opened the back door, and there it was: my wallet, wedged deep between the cushions.
That receipt still sits on my kitchen counter. The ink is fading, but I keep it as a quiet reminder of what kindness looks like—small, intentional, and often invisible. We pass hundreds of people each week, each wrapped in their own noise, their own hurry. Most of the time, we don’t see each other. But sometimes, someone chooses to look.Continue reading…